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AN    AWKWARD    SITUATION 


But  when  they  xoere  all  ready  to  set  out  an  accident  a 
little  retarded  them 


EDITION  DE  LUXE 


THE      WORKS     OF 

HENRY 
FIELDING 


VOLUME  ONE 


THE  ADVENTURES  of 
Joseph  Anare\v'3 


Pkiladelpnia 

JOHN  D.  MORRIS 
AND  COMPANY 


ST.  EDMUNDS   EDITION  DE  LUXE 

Limited  to   One   Thousand   numbered   sets   of 
which  this  is 

No.JLLT 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
The    University   Press 


V.  \ 

CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction xv 

Preface xxix 

BOOK    I 

CHAPTER    ONE 

Of  writing  lives  in  general,  and  particularly  of 
Pamela  ;  with  a  word  by  tlie  bye  of  Colley 
Cibber  and  others 1 

CHAPTER    TWO 

Of  Mr.  Joseph  Andrews,  his  birth,  parentage,  ed- 
ucation, and  great  endowments ;  with  a  word 
or  two  concerning  ancestors 5 

CHAPTER   THREE 

Of  Mr.  Abraham  Adams  the  curate,  Mrs.  Slipslop 

the  chambermaid,  and  others 9 

CHAPTER    FOUR 

What  happened  after  their  journey  to  London      .        15 

[v] 


•* •    1  '  , 

.  c  e        c         .  1 


COxNTENTS 


CHAPTER    FI\T: 

PAGE 

The  death  of  Sir  Thomas  Booby,  with  the  affec- 
tionate and  mournful  behaviour  of  his  widow, 
and  the  great  purity  of  Joseph  Andrews     .     .        18 

CHAPTER    SIX 

How  Joseph  Andrews  writ  a  letter  to  his  sister 

Pamela 23 

CHAPTER    SE^'EN 

Sayings  of  wise  men.  A  dialogue  between  the 
lady  and  her  maid  ;  and  a  panegyric,  or  rather 
satire,  on  the  passion  of  love,  in  the  sublime 
style 29 

CHAPTER    EIGHT 

In  which,  after  some  very  fine  writing,  the  history 
goes  on,  and  relates  the  interview  between  the 
lady  and  Joseph  ;  where  the  latter  hath  set  an 
example  which  we  despair  of  seeing  followed 
by  his  sex  in  this  vicious  age 35 

CHAPTER    NINE 

What  passed  between  the  lady  and  Mrs.  Slipslop ; 
in  which  we  prophesy  there  are  some  strokes 
which  every  one  will  not  truly  comprehend  at 
the  first  reading 43 

[vi] 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   TEN 

PAOK 

Joseph  \iTntes  another  letter  :  his  transactions  with 
Mr.  Peter  Pounce,  etc.,  with  his  departure  from 
Lady  Booby 49 

CHAPTER    ELEVEN 
Of  several  new  matters  not  expected 52 

CHAPTER    TWELVE 

Containing  many  surprizing  adventures  which 
Jose})h  Andrews  met  with  on  tlie  road,  scarce 
credible  to  those  who  have  never  travelled  in 
a  stage-coach 57 

CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

What  happened  to  Joseph  during  his  sickness  at 
the  inn,  with  the  curious  discourse  between 
him  and  Mr.  Barnabas,  the  parson  of  the  parish       68 

CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

Being  very   full   of  adventures  which  succeeded 

each  other  at  the  inn 74 

CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

Showing  how  Mrs.  Tow-wouse  was  a  little  mollified ; 
and  how  officious  Mr.  Barnabas  and  the  sur- 
geon were  to  prosecute  the  thief:  with  a  dis- 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

FAOE 

sertation  accounting  for  their  zeal,  and  that  of 
many  other  persons  not  mentioned  in  tliis 
history 82 

CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

The  escape  of  the  thief.  Mr.  Adams's  disappoint- 
ment. The  arrival  of  two  very  extraordinary 
personages,  and  the  introduction  of  parson 
Adams  to  parson  Barnabas 89 

CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

A  pleasant  discourse  between  the  two  parsons  and 
the  bookseller,  which  was  broke  off  by  an  un- 
lucky accident  happening  in  the  inn,  which 
produced  a  dialogue  between  Mrs.  Tow-wouse 
and  her  maid  of  no  gentle  kind 103 

CHAPTER    EIGHTEEN 

The  history  of  Betty  the  chambermaid,  and  an 
account  of  what  occasioned  the  violent  scene 
in  the  preceding  chapter 112 


BOOK   II 


CHAPTER    ONE 


Of  divisions  in  authors 117 

[  v"i  ] 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER    TWO 

PAGE 


A  surprizing  instance  of  Mr  Adams'  short  mem- 
ory, with  the  unfortunate  consequences  which 
it  brought  on  Joseph 121 

CHAPTER    THREE 

The  opinion  of  two  lawyers  concerning  the  same 
gentleman,  with  Mr.  Adams's  inquiry  into  the 
religion  of  his  host 129 

CHAPTER    FOUR 
The  history  of  Leonora,  or  the  unfortunate  jilt      .      139 

CHAPTER    FIVE 

A  dreadful  quarrel  which  happened  at  the  inn 
where  the  company  dined,  with  its  bloody 
consequences  to  Mr.  Adams l64 

CHAPTER    SIX 
Conclusion  of  the  unfortunate  jilt 177 

CHAPTER    SEVEN 

A  very  short    chapter,   in   which   parson    Adams 

went  a  great  way 184 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 


PAGE 

A  notable  dissertation  by  Mr.  Abraham  Adams ; 
wherein  that  gentleman  appears  in  a  political 
light 189 


CHAPTER    NINE 

In  which  the  gentleman  discants  on  bravery  and 
heroic  virtue,  till  an  unlucky  accident  puts  an 
end  to  the  discourse 194 

CHAPTER    TEN 

Giving  an  account  of  the  strange  catastrophe  of 
tiie  j)receding  adventure,  which  drew  poor 
Adams  into  fresh  calamities ;  and  who  the 
woman  was  who  owed  the  preservation  of  her 
chastity  to  his  victorious  arm 202 

CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

What  happened  to  them  while  before  the  justice. 

A  chapter  very  full  of  learning 210 

CHAPTER   TWELVE 

A  very  delightful  adventure,  as  well  to  the  per- 
sons concerned  as  to  the  good-natured  reader       221 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

PAGE 

A  dissertation  concerning  high  people  and  low 
people,  with  Mrs.  Slipslop's  departure  in  no 
very  good  temper  of  mind,  and  the  evil  plight 
in  which  she  left  Adams  and  his  company  .      .     227 


[xi] 


INTRODUCTION 

"  "^       "'■''AVE  you  any  more   of  Pamela,  Mr. 

R.  ?     We   are  come  to  hear  a  little 

more  of  Pamela." 

So,  according  to  Richardson's  own 
story,  his  "worthy-hearted  wife"  used  to  speak 
every  evening  when,  accompanied  by  a  young  woman 
who  was  boarding  with  her,  she  visited  the  "  little 
closet"  in  which  her  husband  was  composing  that 
work  by  Avhich,  quite  undesignedly,  he  directed  into 
the  path  of  fame  one  of  the  very  greatest  novelists 
of  the  world,  Henry  Fielding.  The  story  of  how 
Richardson  did  so  has  been  told  again  and  again  ;  it 
is  found  in  every  history  of  English  literature ;  and 
because  knowledge  of  it  helps  to  an  understanding  of 
Fielding's  literary  development,  it  will  probably  con- 
tinue to  be  told,  and  it  is  worth  telling  here. 

Samuel  Richardson,  who  even  as  a  boy  had  been 
distinguished  for  letter-writing,  was  a  fat,  prosy 
printer  about  fifty  years  old,  when  certain  publishers 
urged  him  to  give  them  a  book  of  familiar  letters, 
which  should  be  useful  to  people  in  common  life. 
Richardson  decided  to  weave  the  letters  together  by 
making  them  tell  the  story  of  a  pretty  servant-girl, 
Pamela  Andrews,  who,  after  many  adventures,  mar- 

[XV] 


INTRODUCTION 

ried  her  master,  a  young  gentleman  Avho  had  tried 
in  vain  to  make  her  his  mistress.  The  result  was 
Pamela^  published  in  1740.  It  met  with  such  favour 
that  the  next  year  Richardson  gratified  the  world 
with  a  continuation,  which  showed  the  heroine 
regarding  with  a  jealous  but  forgiving  eye  the 
attentions  that  her  husband  bestowed  on  a  certain 
countess,  or  relating  dull  moral  tales  to  her  children. 
In  spite  of  her  favourable  reception  one  hundred 
and  sixty  years  ago,  Pamela  cannot  make  us  feel 
to-day  the  charm  which  Richardson  unquestionably 
would  have  us  feel.  As  a  victim  of  persecution  in 
the  earlier  part  of  her  story,  she  succeeds,  thanks  to 
her  innocence,  in  exciting  our  sympathy  ;  but  such  is 
not  the  case  when  she  has  triumphed  over  her  would- 
be  seducer.  So  far  is  she  from  showing  maidenly 
hesitation  when  marriage  is  offered  to  her,  that  after 
some  prudent  fears  of  deceit  through  a  mock- 
marriage,  she  fairly  jumps  at  the  chance  of  bettering 
her  social  position.  One  cannot  but  feel  that  Pamela 
has  preserved  her  virtue  for  the  sake  of  the  reward. 
To  all  intents  and  purposes  she  sells  herself;  only 
her  shrewd,  mercantile  sense  makes  her  name  as  her 
price  the  right  to  become  Mrs.  B.  The  same  sort 
of  calculating  virtue  is  apparent  in  most  of  her 
actions  ;  though  always  satisfied  with  her  own  con- 
duct to  an  exasperating  degree,  she  apparently  has 
no  idea  of  doing  right  for  right's  sake.  In  the  con- 
tinuation of  her  history,  her  teaching  to  her  chil- 
dren (teaching  which  Richardson  plainly  approved) 
is  :  "  Be  good,  and  you  will  get  tangible  earthly 
rewards." 

I  ^vi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Now  Fielding  —  like  Thackeray  and  Cervantes, 
and  others  who  from  Homer  down  have  known 
human  nature  best  —  was  well  aware  that  unfortu- 
nately such  is  not  always  the  case.  The  marketable 
honour  of  the  vulgar  Pamela  (who,  in  addition  to 
her  other  short-comings,  lacked  all  sense  of  humour) 
seemed  to  a  man  of  the  world  like  him  meet  subject 
for  ridicule.  In  the  drama,  which  so  far  had  been 
almost  the  sole  field  of  his  literary  work,  his  con- 
spicuous successes  had  been  in  satirical  burlesque  — 
Tom  Thumb  and  Pasquin.  It  was  natural,  there- 
fore, that  he  should  take  up  his  pen  to  ridicule  the 
book  which  had  just  offended  him.  According  to 
Fielding,  Richardson's  hero,  Mr.  B.,  became  Mr. 
Booby.  To  his  already  large  circle  of  Booby  rela- 
tives was  added  an  aunt  by  marriage,  Lady  Booby, 
a  female  sinner,  who  had  in  her  service  as  footman  a 
male  saint,  Joseph  Andrews,  brother  to  the  paragon 
of  virtue  herself.  With  Lady  Booby  tempting  this 
footman,  whose  virtue  like  his  sisters  should  be  as 
adamant.  Fielding  thought  that  he  had  excellent 
material  for  his  parody.  And  so  he  began  the  com- 
position of  Joseph  AndrexvSy  which  appeared  in  Febru- 
ary, 1742,  the  first  of  his  novels  to  be  published. 

All  critics  agree  that  Pamela  thus  gave  the  imme- 
diate impulse  to  Joseph  Andrexvs ;  they  are  not 
agreed,  however,  as  to  how  strong  its  influence  re- 
mained throughout  the  book.  It  is  certain  that  the 
parody  runs  into  the  tenth  chapter,  for  in  that  is  a 
letter  from  Joseph  to  his  sister,  in  imitation  of  some 
of  her  own  correspondence.  It  is  equally  certain  that 
in  the  eleventh  chapter.  Fielding  breaks  away  from  the 

[  xvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

parody ;  but,  according  to  Professor  Saintsbury,  all 
through  the  story  signs  of  it  are  to  be  found  in  the 
love  that  Joseph  inspires  in  more  than  one  feminine 
breast.  Finally,  there  is  an  undoubted  return  to  the 
parody  in  the  fourth  book,  which  introduces  not  only 
Lady  Booby,  still  amorously  pursuing  Joseph,  but 
also  her  nephew.  Squire  Booby,  and  his  saintly  spouse. 
So  far  as  they  appear,  they  remain  amusingly  faith- 
ful to  the  pictures  which  Richardson  had  given  of 
them  himself.  The  passages  are  fair  hits  at  the 
earlier  novelist*'s  work  which  show  the  ex-maid- 
servant declaring  to  her  supposed  brother  that  Fanny 
is  no  longer  her  equal  but  her  inferior,  chiding 
Fanny  for  her  assurance  in  aiming  at  such  a  match 
as  Joseph,  and  finally,  on  learning  that  after  all 
Fanny  is  her  sister,  behaving  "  with  great  decency." 

Though  the  influence  of  Pamela  probably  went 
farther  than  those  chapters  in  which  the  parody  is 
plain,  I  am  not  inclined  to  accept  as  truth  the  state- 
ment frequently  made :  that  without  Richardson 
we  should  never  have  had  Fielding.  To  argue 
otherwise  at  length  would  be  futile,  for  we  never 
could  reach  certainty.  The  fact  will  always  remain 
that  Richardson  wrote  a  novel  which  led  his  greater 
contemporary  to  write  a  greater  novel.  It  is  not 
impossible,  however,  —  perhaps  not  improbable  — 
that  Fielding  would  have  produced  something  of  the 
kind  had  Samuel  Richardson  never  been  bom.  At 
all  events,  the  influence  of  many  another  book  than 
Pamela  is  apparent  in  Joseph  Andrews.  The  author 
on  the  title-page  frankly  announced  it  as  "  written 
in^imitation  of  the  manner  of  Cervantes  "  ;  and  even 

[  xviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

without  this  acknowledgment,  readers  might  have 
suspected  as  nmch  from  the  succession  of  rough, 
horse-play  incidents,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Quixotic 
character  of  Joseph's  friend,  Mr.  Abraham  Adams. 
Less  marked,  but  not  less  real,  is  the  influence  of 
Scarron's  Roman  Comique.  It  is  apparent  in  the 
mock-heroic  passages,  in  the  headings  to  the  chap- 
ters, and  in  the  general  bantering  tone  of  jhejvvjiole 
book,  a  good  part  of  which  seems  to  be  an  experi- 
ment, tried  for  the  mere  fun  of  the  thing.  And 
yet,  before  you  are  done  with  Joseph  Andrews,  you 
feel  that  here  is  something  to  be  taken  much  more 
seriously  than  you  would  ever  take  the  Roman 
Comique. 

There  are  other  authors  who  probably  exerted  an 
influence  on  Fielding,  though  their  influence  is  more 
or  less  problematical.  He  himself  speaks  ^  of  Mari- 
vaux  and  LeSage  in  a  way  which  shows  acquaintance 
with  them  and  admiration  for  their  works  ;  but  no 
such  undoubted  traces  of  them  are  to  be  found  in 
Joseph  And  rexes  as  of  Cervantes  and  Scarron.  True, 
the  hero  of  the  Paysan  Parvenu  is  exposed,  in  the 
first  part  of  his  entertaining  history,  to  temptations 
not  unlike  those  which  Joseph  triumphantly  over- 
comes, but  the  resemblance  may  be  only  fortuitous. 
Of  Fielding's  acquaintance  with  yet  other  picaresque 
writers  it  is  impossible  to  speak  certainly ;  knowl- 
edge of  the  works  of  some  of  them,  however,  it  is 
pretty  safe  to  assume.  And  finally,  and  by  no  means 
of  least  importance,  we  must  remember  that  Field- 
ing knew  well  the  character-sketches  of  Addison 
1  Joseph  Andrews,  Book  III,  Chapter  I. 

[  iix  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

and_  Steele.  In  .short,  even  had  he  never  heard  of 
Pamela,  Fieldinj^'s  reading  among  the  later  Spanish 
and  French  and  Enghsh  writers  had  been  of  just  the 
nature  to  prepare  him  for  that  new  kind  of  fiction  in 
Avhich  he  was  to  excel. 

Knowledge  of  books,  however,  without  knowledge 
of  life  will  not  make  a  great  novelist ;  and  fortu- 
nately Fielding  knew  life  even  better  than  he  knew 
books.  He  knew  it  so  well,  when  he_composed 
Joseph  Andrews  at  the  age  of  thirty-four,  that  he 
had  by  that  time  a  training  for  the  career  of  novelist 
such  as  few  men  gifted  with  literary  genius  have 
ever  had.  He  knew^country  life  and  he  knew_town 
lijg_;.  and  he  knew  all  grades  of  society  from  the 
highest  to  the  lowest.  On  both  sides  of  his  house 
he  came  of  gentle  blood  —  on  his  father's,  indeed,  of 
the  noble  blood  of  the  Earls  of  Denbigh*  —  a  family 
somewhat  doubtfully  reported  to  descend  from  the 
royal  house  of  Hapsburg,  whence  that  oft-quoted 
rhetorical  encomium  of  Gibbon  on  Tom  Jones :  — 
that  it  would  "outlive  the  palace  of  the  Escurial 
and  the  Imperial  Eagle  of  the  house  of  Austria."  The 
brilliant  Lady.  jVlary^  Wgrtley  Montagu,  daughter  to 
the  Duke  of  Richmond,  was  Henry  Fielding"'s  second 
cousin.  But  Fielding's  nature  was  not  such  as  would 
restrict  his  friendships  to  his  own  class.  Born  in 
1707  at  Sharpham  Park  in  Somersetshire,  the  seat  of 

1  Fielding's  father  was  General  Edmund  Fielding,  his 
grandfather  was  John  Fielding,  Canon  of  Salisbury,  and  his 
great-grandfather  was  the  Earl  of  Desmond,  in  the  peerage  of 
Ireland.  This  nobleman  was  descended  from  the  younger 
branch  of  the  Earls  of  Denbigh. 

[xxj 


INTRODUCTION 

his  mother's  father,  and  brought  up  in  that  county 
and  in  Dorsetshire,  he  no  doubt  became  acquainted 
in  his  boyhood  with  the  neighbouring  peasantry,  as 
well  as  the  country  gentry.  It  is  not  unrgMonable 
to  imagine  an  intimacy  between  hiuxand  some  vag- 
abond game-keeper,  like  that  between  Black  George 
and  Tom  Jones.  Fielding's  chances  of  observing 
mankind,  however,  were  not  to  be  confined  to  this 
western  country.  When  about  eleven  or  twelve,  he 
was  sent  to  school  at  Eton  where  he  probably 
strengthened  a  taste  already  formed  for  outdoor 
sports,  and  certainly  made  several  life-long  friends. 
On  leaving  school  he  seems  directly  to  have  enlarged 
and  matured  his  still  boyish  experience  by  falling  in 
love  with  Miss  Sarah  Andrew,  a  young  lady  of 
Lyme,  thought  to  be  a  cousin  of  his  on  his  mother's 
side.  Then  came  a  year  or  two  of  foreign  university 
experience,  when  he  was  studying  law  at  Ley  den. 
And  then,  it  is  said  because  his  father's  remittances 
stopped,  he  returned  to  England  and  began  to 
gain  in  London  the  fuller  experience  of  life  which 
generally  comes  to  men  when,  ceasing  to  depend 
on  their  parents,  they  begin  really  to  support 
themselves. 

Fielding  was  not  ftir  from  tuenty-one  when  he  be- 
gan his  London  career.  According  to  all  reports  he 
was  then  a  .fine-looking  fellow,  over  six  feet  in  his 
stockings,  manlv,  gtueious,  and  good-natured,  with 
a  vast  capacity  for  enjoyment.  It  is  small  wonder 
that,  considering  his  penniless  condition,  he  thought 
the  path  to  legal  success  too  long  and  hard ;  the 
path  to  dramatic  fame    seemed    shorter  and  pleas- 

[xxi] 


INTRODUCTION 

anter.  Accordingly,  he  had  soon  entered  on  what 
we  may  call  liis  first  literary  period  —  that  in  which 
he  was  writing  plays  and  probably,  at  some  detri- 
ment to  his  health,  adding  materially  to  his  knowledge 
of  mankind.  After  making  all  allowance  for  the  ex- 
aggeration (and  there  has  been  a  great  deal  of  it)  in 
the  pictures  of  Fielding  as  a  brilliant  rake,  we  must 
believe  that  in  the  first  years  of  his  dramatic  writ- 
ings, he  saw  much  of  a  society  very  different  from 
that  to  which  he  was  born.  He  kissed  the  hands, 
no  doubt,  of  second-rate  actresses,  long  since  indiffer- 
ent to  those  troublesome  things  called  reputations, 
as  well  as  the  hands  of  ladies  of  quality.  Green- 
rooms, shabby  lodgings,  and  sponging-houses  he 
knew  as  well  as  the  drawing-rooms  and  country- 
houses  of  his  friends  and  kinsmen.  Careless  Bohe- 
mianism,  however,  which  might  have  brutalised 
Fielding  far  too  much,  and  which  did  brutalise  him 
a  little  too  much,  was  not  the  only  influence  that  he 
felt;  there  were  other  influences  which  steadied 
him  and  kept  his  nature  sweet.  When  not  quite 
twenty-eight,  he  married,  and  everything  leads  us  to 
suppose  that  he  was  a  tender  husband  and  father.  At 
thirty,  on  account  of  the  "Licensing  Act""  which 
closed  the  theatre  that  he  owned,  he  returned  seri- 
ously to  studying  the  law.  Three  years  later  —  the 
year  before  he  wrote  Joseph  Andrews  —  he  was  called 
to  the  bar.  We  can  see,  therefore,  that  Fielding 
had  an  uncommonly  broad  knowledge  of  human 
nature  when,  by  good  chance,  he  entered  the  path 
which  led  him  to  Joseph  Andrews  and  thence  to  Tom 
Jones  and  Amelia.     We  have  already  seen   that  few 

[xxii  J 


INTRODUCTION 

men  of  his  time  were  better  read  in  the  various 
books  which  helped  prepare  the  way  for  the  English 
novel.  And  so,  as  I  have  said,  I  am  by  no  means 
sure,  that  without  Pamela  to  precede  it,  Joseph  An- 
drews would  never  have  gladdened  and  instructed 
the  world. 

Although  I  should  have  hesitation  in  asserting 
positively  that  we  do  not  owe  Fielding  as  a  novelist 
to  Richardson,  I  should  say  without  hesitation  that 
until  Joseph  Andrews  had  been  composed,  the  future 
oFthe  English  novel  was  not  assured.  By  a  n^^l  "^^Ss 
we  commonly  understand  to-day  a  story  with  a  fairly 
well-defined  beginning,  middle,  and  end,  in  which 
characters,  who  are  not  minatural,  go  through  ad- 
ventures which  may  be  ever  so  romantic,  provided 
that  we  can  still  accept  them  as  real.  Some  novels 
Ave  read  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  the  plot ;  some,  for 
the  clever  delineation  of  the  characters  ;  and  the  best, 
for  a  happy  combination  of  both,  such  as  Tom 
Jones,  Pride  and  Prejudice,  and  Henry  Esmond. 
Furthermore,  in  these  three,  as  in  all  the  best  novels, 
the  background  seems  real.  When  we  read  Esmond, 
for  instance,  we  feel  that  we  are  in  the  England  of 
Anne  and  the  great  Marlborough  and  the  "  Augus- 
tan" wits  almost  as  strongly  as  when  we  read  The 
Spectator  or  The  Rape  of  the  Lock.  In  other  words, 
the  elements  of  a  good  novel  are  plot,  characters,  and 
general  verisimilitude. )  It  is  not  necessary  that  each 
of  these  should  be  present  in  an  equal  degree,  but  it 
is  essential  that  none  of  them  should  be  wholly  lack- 
ing. Now  nowhere  in  English  prose  had  these  three 
elements  been  so  well  combined  in  the  year  1742  as 

[  xxiii  ] 


Il0t^€. 


INTRODUCTION 

in  Joseph  Andrexvs.  Not  to  go  back  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  Addison  and  Steele  had  made  excellent 
character-sketches  standing  out  against  excellent 
backgrounds,  but  more  they  did  not  do.  If  they  had 
given  the  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  papers  a  good  plot, 
they  would  have  produced  a  novel.  Defoe  had 
written  many  stories  whose  verisimilitude  could  not 
be  surpassed,  but  they  had  no  plot  and  very  few  liv- 
ing characters.  Atjength  in  Pamela^  Richardson  hit 
after  a  fashion  upon  the  combination  of  elements 
that  the  English  novel  should  have.  Pamela  had 
plot,  it  had  fairly  real  characters,  and,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, it  had  verisimilitude.  The  characters,  however, 
like  all  of  Richardson's,  are  too  conventional  and  not 
enough  individual  —  especially  his  people  of  quality  ; 
you  would  never  find  a  Squire  Western  or  a  Sir  Pitt 
Crawley  among  them.  Nor  are  the  scenes  always 
such  as  to  make  you  for  the  time  accept  them  as 
real.  No,  there  is  not  that  in  Pamela  which  makes 
you  believe  that  the  English  novel  is  going  to  become 
a  literary  form  unsurpassed  for  giving  pictures  of 
actual  life.  After  reading  it  you  feel  no  certainty 
that  the  kind  of  literature  has  been  discovered  which 
shall  introduce  us  to  such  bits  of  reality  as  the  small 
country  balls  honoured  by  Elizabeth  Bennet  and 
Emma  Woodhouse  ;  which  shall  hurry  us  breathless 
across  the  streets  and  squares  of  Vanity  Fair^  while 
Mrs.  Rawdon  dines  alone  with  Lord  Steyne ;  or  (to 
take  a  recent  but  not  unworthy  instance)  which  shall 
carry  us  in  the  te-rahi  from  Lahore  to  Umballa  with 
Kim  and  the  old  lama  and  their  strange  eastern  com- 
panions.    Of  all  this  life,  and  of  the  nmch  more 

[  xxiv  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

that  is  in  the  EngHsh  novel,  Pamela  gives  us  only 
slight  hope;  but  Joseph  Andrexcs  gives  us  certain 
promise.  For  this  reason  it  is  that  I  saw  till  J^-^^ph 
Andrews  was  composed,  the  future  of  the  English 
novel  was  not  assured.  For  this  reason  it  is  that 
Joseph  Andrexcs  is  one  of  the  most  important  books 
iii^our  literature. 

Yet  one  does  not  have  to  examine  Joseph  Andrews  . 

very  critically  to  find  a  conspicuous  weakness  in  its  iiM  ^ 
structure  —  a  weakness  arisimr^not  from  inadequacy 
of  plot  (for  the  plot  is  coherent  and  substantial 
enough),  but  froni  the  way  in-wliich  iUk  unfolded. 
Instead  of  going  straight  to  its  end,  the  story_£Dn- 
tinually  wanders  off  the  track  to  incidents  which  help 
it  forward  little,  if  any.  Fielding's  French  and  Span- 
ish models,  of  course,  are  responsible  for  this  leisurely, 
uncertain  movement.  They  have  no  very  definite 
ends  to  reach,  and  they  frequently  digress  into  so- 
called  "  novels"  —  that  is,  short  stories  distinct  from 
the  main  tale  —  or  into  long-winded  life-histories  of 
characters  in  the  main  story.  It  is  not  so  surprising, 
therefore,  that  similar  digressive  episodes  are  found  in 
Joseph  Andrews,  as  that  here  they  break  the  thread  of 
the  principal  narrative  much  less  than  they  do  in  most 
works  in  which  they  appear.  Mr.  Wilson's  history 
is  shown  by  subsequent  disclosures  to  be  scarcely 
irrelevant  at  all  ;  and  the  less  relevant  stories  of 
Leonora,  the  unfortunate  jilt,  and  of  Leonard 
and  Paul  are  made  acceptable  (if  not  almost  in- 
tegrant) parts  of  the  main  tale  by  the  very  char- 
acteristic interruptions  of  Parson  Adams  and  the 
other  hearei*s, 

[  XXV  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

But  if  Joseph  Andrews  is  weak  in  one  of  the  ele- 
ments of  a  good  novel,  in  the  other  two  it  is  strong. 
Were  its  structure  much  J^gg^^^m  that  it  is,  the 
reality  of  its  characters  and  of  its  scenes  would  still 

•  kee^it  alive.  Nowhere  in  earlier  English  prose  will 
you  find  such  a  living  character  as  Parson  Adams 
appearing  in  a  series  of  credible  scenes  so  closely  con- 
nected. And  nowhere  in  English  prose,  later  or 
earlier,  will  you  find  a  character  more  lovable  in  his 
,  simplicity.  In  the  chapters  which  introduce  him,  as 
elsewhere  in  Joseph  Andrews,  the  influence  of  Cer- 
vantes is  strongly  apparent ;  there  is  more  than  one 
resemblance  between  Adams  and  Don  Quixote. 
They  are  alike,  as  Scott  has  ob  erved,  in  that  both 
X      are  beaten    too   much ;    and    notwithstanding  some 

I  obvious  differences,  they  are  alike  in  their  natures. 
Naturally  a  Spanish  gentleman  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  with  his  head  full  of  the  romances  of 
chivalry,  must  be  in  many  ways  different  from  a  poor 
English  clergyman  of  the  eighteenth  century,  with 
his  head  full  of  the  Greek  poets.  And  yet  Parson 
Adams,  for  all  his  pedantry,  is  the  same  sort  of 
simple,  pure-minded  gentleman  as  that  dear,  crazy 
old  Don  —  one  of  the  truest  gentlemen  in  the  world. 
There  is  another  gentleman  —  his  portrait  is  given 
us  by  the  novelist  who  of  nineteenth  century  writers 
is  most  like  Fielding  —  who  always  seems  to  me  to 
take  his  place  properly  beside  Don  Quixote  and 
Parson  Adams  —  I  mean  Colonel  Newcome.  It 
would  be  hard  to  find  three  men  with  finer  gentle- 
manly feelings  than  these. 

Adams  is  unquestionably  the  great    character  of 

[  xxvi  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

Joseph  Andrews.  Joseph  himself  and  Fanny,  in 
spite  of  their  importance  in  the  plot,  interest  us  less. 
Indeed,  like  many  stage-lovers,  they  are  less  alive 
than  most  of  the  other  characters.  They  are  not  so 
interesting  as  the  young  people  whom  Fielding  was 
to  create  later  —  as  Tom  Jones  and  Sophia  AVestern, 
or  as  Booth  and  Amelia.  In  Mrs.  Slipslop,  however, 
is  a  character-sketch  which  Fielding  could  not  have 
bettered  ;  she  is  a  mixture  of  servility,  impertinence, 
hypociisy,  and  sensuality  that  could  not  be  sur- 
passed. Nor  is  Mrs.  Malaprop  herself  more  amusing 
in  the  "  nice  derangement  of  her  epitaphs "  than 
Slipslop,  when  she  talks  about  "  flagrant  crimes " 
and  the  "  infections,''''  meaning  affections,  "  of  her 
sect." 

As  to  the  rest  of  the  characters,  it  is  enough  to  say 
that,  even  if  they  are  on  the  stage  but  a  few  minutes, 
they  act  their  parts  to  the  life.  Parson  Trulliber, 
for  instance,  appears  in  only  one  chapter,  but  he 
is  a  figure  in  our  literature  forever.  Xhg,£?ople  of 
Joseph  Andre-iCS  all  live,  and  that  is  the  great  merit 
of  the  book.  It  proves,  as  I  have  said,  that  the 
English  novel  is  a  literary  form  unsurpassed  for  giv- 
ing pictures  of  actual  life.  A  reader  feels  that  he 
has  really  travelled  along  the  road  from  London  to 
Somersetshire,  stopped  at  the  inns  kept  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tow-wouse  and  others,  and  ridden  in  the  stage- 
coach to  which  Joseph  was  admitted  after  so  much 
dispute.  A  rough  life  it  is  and  a  coarse  life,  but  it 
gives  you  the  fresh  breath  of  the  fields  and  the  woods, 
and  it  makes  you  feel  in  the  best  physical  condition. 
Unless  you  are  squeamish,  you  feel  in  good  mental 
,_„.,._^  [  xxvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

condition,  too,  for  you  have  had  the  vices  and  foibles 
and  also  the  virtues  of  life  pointed  out  and  com- 
mented on  frankly,  shrewdly,  and  sympathetically  by 
one  of  the  sanest  observers  of  human  nature  who 
ever  lived. 

G.   H.  Maynadier. 


xxviii  ^* 


AUTHOR  S    PREFACE 

jA  S  it  is  possible  the  mere  English  reader 
/^k         may  have  a  different    idea   of  romance 

/ — ^  from  the  author  of  these  little^  volumes, 
^  ^  and  may  consequently  expect  a  kind  of 
entertainment  not  to  be  found,  nor  which  was  even 
intended,  in  the  following  pages,  it  may  not  be 
improper  to  premise  a  few  words  concerning  this 
kind  of  writing,  which  I  do  not  remember  to  have 
seen  hitherto  attempted  in  our  language. 

The  Epic,  as  well  as  the  Drama,  is  divided  into 
traced V  and  comedy.  Homer,  who  was  the  father 
of  this  species  of  poetry,  gave  us_a  pattern  of  both 
these,  though  that  of  the  latter  kind  is  entirely  lost ; 
which  Aristotle  tells  us,  bore  the  same  relation  to 
comedy  which  his  Iliad  bears  to  tragedy.  And  per- 
haps, that  we  have  no  more  instances  of  it  among 
the  writers  of  antiquity,  is  owing  to  the  loss  of  this 
great  pattern,  which,  had  it  survived,  would  have 
found  its  imitators  equally  with  the  other  poems  of 
this  great  original. 

And  farther,  as  this  poetry  may  be  tragic  or 
comic,  I  will  not  scruple  to  say  it  may  be  likewise 
either  in  verse  or  prose  :  for  though  it  wants  one 
particular,  which  the  critic  enumerates  in  the  con- 

1  Joseph  Andrews  Was  originalJy  published  in  2  vols.  12mo. 

\  xxix  ] 


AUTHOR S    PREFACE 

stituent  parts  of  an  epic  poem,  namely  metre  ;  yet, 
when  any  kind  of  writing  contains  all  its  other  parts, 
such  as  fable,  action,  characters,  sentiments,  and 
diction,  and  is  deficient  in  metre  only,  it  seems,  I 
think,  reasonable  to  refer  it  to  the  epic ;  at  least,  as 
no  critic  hath  thought  proper  to  range  it  under  any 
other  head,  or  to  assign  it  a  particular  name  to 
itself 

Thus  the  Telemachus  of  the  archbishop  of  Cam- 
bray  appears  to  me  of  the  epic  kind,  as  well  as  the 
Odyssey  of  Homer ;  indeed,  it  is  much  fairer  and 
more  reasonable  to  give  it  a  name  common  with  that  < 
species  from  which  it  differs  only  in  a  single  instance, 
than  to  confound  it  with  those  which  it  resembles  in 
no  other.  Such  are  those  voluminous  works,  com- 
monly called  Romances,  namely,  Clelia,  Cleopatra, 
Astraea,  Cassandra,  the  Grand  Cyrus,  and  innumer- 
able others,  which  contain,  as  I  apprehend,  very 
little  instruction  or  entertainment. 

Now,  a  comic  romance  is  a  comic  epic  poem  in 
prose  ;  differing  from  comedy,  as  the  serious  epic 
from  tragedy :  its  action  being  more  extended  and 
comprehensive ;  containing  a  much  larger  circle  of 
incidents,  and  introducing  a  greater  variety  of  char- 
acters. It  differs  from  the  serious  romance  in  its 
fable  and  action,  in  this ;  that  as  in  the  one  these 
are  grave  and  solemn,  so  in  the  other  they  are  light 
and  ridiculous ;  it  differs  in  its  characters  by  intro- 
ducing persons  of  inferior  rank,  and  consequently, 
of  inferior  manners,  whereas  the  grave  romance  sets 
the  highest  before  us:  lastly,  in  its  sentiments  and 
diction  ;  by  preserving  the  ludicrous  instead  of  the 

[  XXX  ] 


AUTHORS    PREFACE 

sublime.  In  the  diction,  I  think,  burlesque  itself 
may  be  sometimes  admitted  ;  of  which  many  instances 
will  occur  in  this  work,  as  in  the  description  of  the 
battles,  and  some  other  places,  not  necessary  to  be 
pointed  out  to  the  classical  reader,  for  whose  enter- 
tainment those  parodies  or  burlesque  imitations  are 
chiefly  calculated. 

But  though  we  have  sometimes  admitted  this  in 
our  diction,  we  have  carefully  excluded  it  from  our 
sentiments  and  characters  ;  for  there  it  is  never  prop- 
erly introduced,  unless  in  writings  of  the  burlesque 
kind,  which  this  is  not  intended  to  be.     Indeed,  no 
two  species  of  writing  can  differ  more  widely  than 
the  comic  and  the  burlesque  ;    for   as  the  latter  is 
ever  the  exhibition  of  what  is  monstrous  and  un- 
natural, and   where   our  delight,   if  we  examine  it, 
arises  from   the  surprizing  absurdity,  as  in   appro- 
priating the  manners  of  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  or 
e  converso ;  so  in  the  former  we  should  ever  confine 
ourselves  strictly  to  nature,  from  the  just  imitation 
of  which  will  flow  all  the  pleasure  we  can  this  way 
convey  to  a  sensible  reader.     And  perhaps  there  is 
one  reason  why  a  comic  writer  should  of  all  others 
be  the  least  excused  for  deviating  from  nature,  since 
it  may  not  be  always  so  easy  for  a  serious  poet  to 
meet  with  the   great  and    the  admirable ;    but    life 
everywhere  furnishes  an  accurate  observer  with  the 
ridiculous. 

I  have  hinted  this  little  concerning  burlesque, 
because  I  have  often  heard  that  name  given  to  per- 
formances which  have  been  truly  of  the  comic  kind, 
from  the  author's  having  sometimes  admitted  it  in 

[  xxxi  ] 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

his  diction  only ;  which,  as  it  is  the  dress  of  poetry, 
doth,  hke  the  dress  of  men,  estabhsh  characters  ( the 
one  of  the  whole  poem,  and  the  other  of  the  whole 
man),  in  vulgar  opinion,  beyond  any  of  their  greater 
excellences:  but  surely,  a  certain  drollery  in  stile, 
where  characters  and  sentiments  are  perfectly  natural, 
no  more  constitutes  the  burlesque,  than  an  empty 
pomp  and  dignity  of  words,  where  everything  else  is 
mean  and  low,  can  entitle  any  performance  to  the 
appellation  of  the  true  sublime. 

And  I  appreliend  my  Lord  Shaftesbury's  opinion 
of  mere  burlesque  agrees  with  mine,  when  he  asserts, 
There  is  no  such  thing  to  be  found  in  the  writings 
of  the  ancients.  But  perhaps  I  have  less  abhorrence 
than  he  professes  for  it ;  and  that,  not  because  I  have 
had  some  little  success  on  the  stage  this  way,  but 
rather  as  it  contributes  more  to  exquisite  mirth  and 
laughter  than  any  other;  and  these  are  probably 
more  wholesome  physic  for  the  mind,  and  conduce 
better  to  purge  away  spleen,  melancholy,  and  ill 
affections,  than  is  generally  imagined.  Nay,  I  will 
appeal  to  common  observation,  whether  the  same 
companies  are  not  found  more  fiill  of  good-humour 
and  benevolence,  after  they  have  been  sweetened  for 
two  or  three  hours  with  entertaiiunents  of  this  kind, 
than  when  soured  by  a  tragedy  or  a  grave  lecture. 

But  to  illustrate  all  this  by  another  science,  in 
which,  perhaps,  we  shall  see  the  distinction  more 
clearly  and  plainly,  let  us  examine  the  works  of  a 
comic  history  painter,  with  those  performances 
which  the  Italians  call  Caricatura,  where  we  shall 
find  the  true  excellence  of  the  former  to  consist  in 

[  xxxii  J 


AUTHORS    PREFACE 

the  exactest  copying  of  nature  ;  insomuch  that  a 
judicious  eye  instantly  rejects  anything  outre,  any 
Hberty  which  the  painter  hath  taken  with  the  features 
of  that  alma  inater ;  whereas  in  the  Caricatura  we 
allow  all  licence  —  its  aim  is  to  exhibit  monsters,  not 
men  ;  and  all  distortions  and  exaggerations  whatever 
are  within  its  proper  province. 

Now,  what^aiica|urajsjn  painting,  Burlesque  is 
in  writing ;  and  in  the  same  manner  the  cornicjyriter 
and~"painter  correlate  to  each  other.  And  here  I 
shall  observe,  that,  as  in  the  former  the  painter 
seems  to  have  the  advantage  ;  so  it  is  in  the  latter 
infinitely  on  the  side  of  the  writer ;  for  the  Mon- 
strous is  much  easier  to  paint  than  describe,  and  the 
Ridiculous  to  describe  than  paint. 

And  though  perhaps  this  latter  species  doth  not 
in  either  science  so  strongly  affect  and  agitate  the 
muscles  as  the  other ;  yet  it  m  ill  be  owned,  I  believe, 
that  a  more  rational  and  useful  pleasure  arises  to  us 
from  it.  He  who  should  call  the  ingenious  Hogarth 
a  burlesque  painter,  would,  in  my  opinion,  do  him 
very  little  honour ;  for  sure  it  is  much  easier,  much 
less  the  subject  of  admiration,  to  paint  a  man  with 
a  nose,  or  any  other  feature,  of  a  preposterous  size, 
or  to  expose  him  in  some  absurd  or  monstrous  atti- 
tude, than  to  express  the  affections  of  men  on  canvas. 
It  hath  been  thought  a  vast  commendation  of  a 
painter  to  say  his  figures  seem  to  breathe ;  but 
surely  it  is  a  much  greater  and  nobler  applause,  that 
they  appear  to  think. 

But  to  return.  The  Ridiculous  only,  as  I  have 
before  said,  falls  within  my  province  in  the  present 

[  xxxiii  ] 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

work.  Nor  will  some  explanation  of  this  word  be 
thought  impertinent  by  the  reader,  if  he  considers 
how  wonderfully  it  hath  been  mistaken,  even  by 
writers  who  have  professed  it :  for  to  what  but  such 
a  mistake  can  we  attribute  the  many  attempts  to 
ridicule  the  blackest  villanies,  and,  what  is  yet  worse, 
the  most  dreadful  calamities  ?  What  could  exceed 
the  absurdity  of  an  author,  who  should  write  the 
comedy  of  Nero,  with  the  merry  incident  of  ripping 
up  his  mother's  belly  ?  or  what  would  give  a  greater 
shock  to  humanity  than  an  attempt  to  expose  the 
miseries  of  poverty  and  distress  to  ridicule  ?  And 
yet  the  reader  will  not  want  much  learning  to  suggest 
such  instances  to  himself. 

Besides,  it  may  seem  remarkable,  that  Aristotle, 
who  is  so  fond  and  free  of  definitions,  hath  not 
thought  proper  to  define  the  Ridiculous.  Indeed, 
where  he  tells  us  it  is  proper  to  comedy,  he  hath 
remarked  that  villany  is  not  its  object :  but  he  hath 
not,  as  I  remember,  positively  asserted  what  is. 
Nor  doth  the  Abbe  Bellegarde,  who  hath  written  a 
treatise  on  this  subject,  though  he  shows  us  many 
species  of  it,  once  trace  it  to  its  fountain. 

The  only  source  of  the  true  Ridiculous  (as  it 
appears  to  me)  is  affectation.  But  though  it  arises 
from  one  spring  only,  when  we  consider  the  infinite 
streams  into  which  this  one  branches,  we  shall  pres- 
ently cease  to  admire  at  the  copious  field  it  affords 
to  an  observer.  Now,  affectation  proceeds  from  one 
of  these  two  causes,  vanity  or  hypocrisy  :  for  as  vanity 
puts  us  on  affecting  false  characters,  in  order  to  pur- 
chase applause  ;  so  hypocrisy  sets  us  on  an  endeavour 

[  xxxiv  ] 


AUTHORS    PREFACE 

to  avoid  censure,  by  concealing  our  vices  under  an 
appearance  of  their  opposite  virtues.  And  though 
these  two  causes  are  often  confounded  (for  there  is 
some  difficulty  in  distinguishing  them),  yet,  as  they 
proceed  from  very  different  motives,  so  they  are  as 
clearly  distinct  in  their  operations  :  for  indeed,  the 
affectation  which  arises  from  vanity  is  nearer  to  truth 
than  the  other,  as  it  hath  not  that  violent  repug- 
nancy of  nature  to  struggle  with,  which  that  of  the 
hypocrite  hath.  It  may  be  likewise  noted,  that 
affectation  doth  not  imply  an  absolute  negation  of 
those  qualities  which  are  affected ;  and,  therefore, 
though,  when  it  proceeds  from  hypocrisy,  it  be 
nearly  allied  to  deceit ;  yet  when  it  comes  from 
vanity  only,  it  partakes  of  the  nature  of  ostentation  : 
for  instance,  the  affectation  of  liberality  in  a  vain 
man  differs  visibly  from  the  same  affectation  in  the 
avaricious  ;  for  though  the  vain  man  is  not  what  he 
would  appear,  or  hath  not  the  virtue  he  affects,  to 
the  degree  he  would  be  thought  to  have  it ;  yet  it 
sits  less  awkwardly  on  him  than  on  the  avaricious 
man,  who  is  the  very  reverse  of  what  he  would  seem 
to  be. 

From  the  discovery  of  this  affectation  arises  the 
Ridiculous,  which  always  strikes  the  reader  with  sur- 
prize and  pleasure ;  and  that  in  a  higher  and  stronger 
degree  when  the  affectation  arises  from  hypocrisy, 
than  when  from  vanity ;  for  to  discover  any  one  to 
be  the  exact  reverse  of  what  he  affects,  is  more  sur- 
prizing, and  consequently  more  ridiculous,  than  to 
find  him  a  little  deficient  in  the  quality  he  desires 
the  reputation   of.     I  might  observe  that  our  Ben 

[  XXXV  j 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

Jonson,  who  of  all  men  understood  the  Ridiculous  the 
best,  hath  chiefly  used  the  hypocritical  affectation. 

Now,  from  affectation  only,  the  misfortunes  and 
calamities  of  life,  or  the  imperfections  of  nature, 
may  become  the  objects  of  ridicule.  Surely  he  hath 
a  very  ill-framed  mind  who  can  look  on  ugliness, 
infirmity,  or  poverty,  as  ridiculous  in  themselves : 
nor  do  I  believe  any  man  living,  who  meets  a  dirty 
fellow  riding  through  the  streets  in  a  cart,  is  struck 
with  an  idea  of  the  Ridiculous  from  it ;  but  if  he 
should  see  the  same  figure  descend  from  his  coach 
and  six,  or  bolt  from  his  chair  with  his  hat  under 
his  arm,  he  would  then  begin  to  laugh,  and  with  jus- 
tice. In  the  same  manner,  were  we  to  enter  a  poor 
house  and  behold  a  wretched  family  shivering  with 
cold  and  languishing  with  hunger,  it  would  not 
incline  us  to  laughter  (at  least  we  must  have  very 
diabolical  natures  if  it  would) ;  but  should  we  dis- 
cover there  a  grate,  instead  of  coals,  adorned  with 
flowers,  empty  plate  or  china  dishes  on  the  side- 
board, or  any  other  affectation  of  riches  and  finery, 
either  on  their  persons  or  in  their  furniture,  we 
might  then  indeed  be  excused  for  ridiculing  so  fan- 
tastical an  appearance.  Much  less  are  natural 
imperfections  the  object  of  derision  ;  but  when  ugli- 
ness aims  at  the  applause  of  beauty,  or  lameness 
endeavours  to  display  agility,  it  is  then  that  these 
unfortunate  circumstances,  which  at  first  moved  our 
compassion,  tend  only  to  raise  our  mirth. 

The  poet  carries  this  very  far  :  — 

None  are  for  being  what  they  are  in  fault. 
But  for  not  being  what  they  would  be  thought. 
\  [  xxxvi  j 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

Where  if  the  metre  would  suffer  the  word  Ridiculous 
to  close  the  first  line,  the  thought  would  be  rather 
more  proper.  Great  vices  are  the  proper  objects  of 
our  detestation,  smaller  faults,  of  our  pity ;  but 
affectation  appears  to  me  the  only  true  source  of  the 
Ridiculous. 

But  perhaps  it  may  be  objected  to  me,  that  I  have 
against  my  own  rules  introduced  vices,  and  of  a  very 
black  kind,  into  this  work.  To  which  I  shall  answer  : 
first,  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  pursue  a  series  of 
human  actions,  and  keep  clear  from  them.  Secondly, 
that  the  vices  to  be  found  here  are  rather  the  acci- 
dental consequences  of  some  human  frailty  or  foible, 
than  causes  habitually  existing  in  the  mind.  Thirdly, 
that  they  are  never  set  forth  as  the  objects  of  ridicule, 
but  detestation.  Fourthly,  that  they  are  never  the 
principal  figure  at  that  time  on  the  scene :  and, 
lastly,  they  never  produce  the  intended  evil. 

Having  thus  distinguished  Joseph  Andrews  from 
the  productions  of  romance  writers  on  the  one  hand 
and  burlesque  writers  on  the  other,  and  given  some 
few  very  short  hints  (for  I  intended  no  more)  of  this 
species  of  writing,  which  I  have  affirmed  to  be 
hitherto  unattempted  in  our  language  ;  I  shall  leave 
to  my  good-natured  reader  to  apply  my  piece  to  my 
observations,  and  will  detain  him  no  longer  than  with 
a  word  concerning  the  characters  in  this  work. 

And  here  I  solemnly  protest  I  have  no  intention 
to  vilify  or  asperse  any  one  ;  for  though  everything  is 
copied  from  the  book  of  nature,  and  scarce  a  char- 
acter or  action  produced  which  I  have  not  taken 
from  my  own    observations  and   experience;   yet   I 

[  xxxvii  ] 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

have  used  the  utmost  care  to  obscure  the  persons  by 
such  different  circumstances,  degrees,  and  colours, 
that  it  will  be  impossible  to  guess  at  them  with  any 
degree  of  certainty  ;  and  if  it  ever  happens  other- 
wise, it  is  only  where  the  failure  characterized  is  so 
minute,  that  it  is  a  foible  only  which  the  party 
himself  may  laugh  at  as  well  as  any  other. 

As  to  the  character  of  Adams,  as  it  is  the  most 
glaring  in  the  whole,  so  I  conceive  it  is  not  to  be 
found  in  any  book  now  extant.  It  is  designed  a 
character  of  perfect  simplicity  ;  and  as  the  goodness 
of  his  heart  will  I'ecommend  him  to  the  good-natured, 
so  I  hope  it  will  excuse  me  to  the  gentlemen  of  his 
cloth  ;  for  whom,  while  they  are  worthy  of  their  sacred 
order,  no  man  can  possibly  have  a  greater  respect. 
They  will  therefore  excuse  me,  notwithstanding  the 
low  adventures  in  which  he  is  engaged,  that  I  have 
made  him  a  clergyman ;  since  no  other  office  could 
have  given  him  so  many  opportunities  of  displaying 
his  worthy  inclinations. 


'  \, 


[  xxxviii  ] 


THE  HISTORY  of  the  ADVENTURES 

0/ JOSEPH   ANDREWS 

AND  HIS  FRIEND  MR.  ABRAHAM  ADAMS 

BOOK    I 

CHAPTER   ONE 

OF  WRITING  LIVES  IN  GENERAL,  AND  PARTICULARLY  OF 
PAMELA  ;  WITH  A  WORD  BY  THE  BYE  OF  COLLEY 
GIBBER  AND  OTHERS. 

IT  is  a  trite  but  true  observation,  that  examples 
work  more  forcibly  on  the  mind  than  pre- 
cepts :  and  if  this  be  just  in  what  is  odious 
and  blameable,  it  is  more  strongly  so  in  what 
is  amiable  and  praiseworthy.  Here  emulation  most 
effectually  operates  upon  us,  and  inspires  our  imita- 
tion in  an  irresistible  manner.  A  good  man  there- 
fore is  a  standing  lesson  to  all  his  acquaintance,  and 
of  far  greater  use  in  that  narrow  circle  than  a  good 
book. 

But  as  it  often  happens  that  the  best  men  are  but 
little  known,  and  consequently  cannot  extend  the 
usefulness  of  their  examples  a  great  way  ;  the  writer 
may  be  called  in  aid  to  spread  their  history  farther, 

VOL.  I.  —  1  [   1   ] 


-J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

and  to  present  the  amiable  pictures  to  those  who 
have  not  the  happiness  of  knowing  the  originals  ; 
and  so,  by  communicating  such  valuable  patterns  to 
the  world,  he  may  perhaps  do  a  more  extensive  ser- 
vice to  mankind  than  the  person  whose  life  originally 
afforded  the  pattern. 

In  this  light  I  have  always  regarded  those  biogra- 
phers who  have  recorded  the  actions  of  great  and 
worthy  persons  of  both  sexes.  Not  to  mention  those 
antient  writers  which  of  late  days  are  little  read, 
being  written  in  obsolete,  and  as  they  are  generally 
thought,  unintelligible  languages,  such  as  Plutarch, 
Nepos,  and  others  which  I  heard  of  in  my  youth  ; 
our  own  language  affords  many  of  excellent  use  and 
instruction,  finely  calculated  to  sow  the  seeds  of 
virtue  in  youth,  and  very  easy  to  be  comprehended 
by  persons  of  moderate  capacity.  Such  as  the 
history  of  John  the  Great,  who,  by  his  brave  and 
heroic  actions  against  men  of  large  and  athletic 
bodies,  obtained  the  glorious  appellation  of  the 
Giant-killer ;  that  of  an  Earl  of  Warwick,  whose 
Christian  name  was  Guy ;  the  lives  of  Argalus  and 
Parthenia ;  and  above  all,  the  history  of  those  seven 
worthy  personages,  the  Champions  of  Christendom. 
In  all  these  delight  is  mixed  with  instruction,  and  the 
reader  is  almost  as  much  improved  as  entertained. 

But  I  pass  by  these  and  many  others  to  men- 
tion  two   books   lately  published,  which  represent 

[2] 


THE    PREVALENCE    OF    EXAMPLE 

an  admirable  pattern  of  the  amiable  in  either  sex. 
The  former  of  these,  which  deals  in  male  virtue,  was 
written  by  the  great  person  himself,  who  lived  the 
life  he  hath  recorded,  and  is  by  many  thought  to 
have  lived  such  a  life  only  in  order  to  write  it.  The 
other  is  communicated  to  us  by  an  historian  who 
borrows  his  lights,  as  the  common  method  is,  from 
authentic  papers  and  records.  The  reader,  I  believe, 
already  conjectures,  I  mean  the  lives  of  Mr.  Colley 
Cibber  and  of  Mrs.  Pamela  Andrews.  How  artfully 
doth  the  former,  by  insinuating  that  he  escaped 
being  promoted  to  the  highest  stations  in  Church 
and  State,  teach  us  a  contempt  of  worldly  grandeur  ! 
how  strongly  doth  he  inculcate  an  absolute  sub- 
mission to  our  superiors  !  Lastly,  how  completely 
doth  he  arm  us  against  so  uneasy,  so  wretched  a 
passion  as  the  fear  of  shame !  how  clearly  doth  he 
expose  the  emptiness  and  vanity  of  that  phantom, 
reputation  ! 

What  the  female  readers  are  taught  by  the  mem- 
oirs of  Mrs.  Andrews  is  so  well  set  forth  in  the 
excellent  essays  or  letters  prefixed  to  the  second  and 
subsequent  editions  of  that  work,  that  it  would  be 
here  a  needless  repetition.  The  authentic  history  with 
which  I  now  present  the  public  is  an  instance  of  the 
great  good  that  book  is  likely  to  do,  and  of  the 
prevalence  of  example  which  I  have  just  observed : 
since  it  will  appear  that  it  was  by  keeping  the  excel- 

[3] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

lent  pattern  of  his  sister's  virtues  before  his  eyes, 
that  Mr.  Joseph  Andrews  was  chiefly  enabled  to  pre- 
serve his  purity  in  the  midst  of  such  great  tempta- 
tions. I  shall  only  add  that  this  character  of  male 
chastity,  though  doubtless  as  desirable  and  becoming 
in  one  part  of  the  human  species  as  in  the  other,  is 
almost  the  only  virtue  which  the  great  apologist  hath 
not  given  himself  for  the  sake  of  giving  the  example 
to  his  readers. 


[4] 


CHAPTER  TWO 

OF  MR.  JOSEPH  ANDREWS,  HIS  BIRTH,  PARENTAGE,  EDUCA- 
TION, AND  GREAT  ENDOWMENTS  ;  WITH  A  WORD  OR 
TWO  CONCERNING  ANCESTORS. 

MR.  JOSEPH  ANDREWS,  the  hero  of 
our  ensuing  history,  w'as  esteemed  to 
be  the  only  son  of  Gaffar  and  Gam- 
mer Andrews,  and  brother  to  the 
illustrious  Pamela,  whose  virtue  is  at  present  so 
famous.  As  to  his  ancestors,  we  have  searched  with 
great  diligence,  but  little  success  ;  being  unable  to 
trace  them  farther  than  his  great-grandfather,  who, 
as  an  elderly  person  in  the  parish  remembers  to  have 
heard  his  father  say,  was  an  excellent  cudgel -player. 
Whether  he  had  any  ancestors  before  this,  we  must 
leave  to  the  opinion  of  our  curious  reader,  finding 
nothing  of  sufficient  certainty  to  rely  on.  However, 
we  cannot  omit  inserting  an  epitaph  which  an  ingen- 
ious friend  of  ours  hath  communicated  :  — 

Stay,  traveller,  for  underneath  this  pew 
Lies  fast  asleep  that  merry  man  Andrew  : 
When  the  last  day's  great  sun  shall  gild  the  skies. 
Then  he  shall  from  his  tomb  get  up  and  rise. 
Be  merry  while  thou  canst  :  for  surely  thou 
Shalt  shortly  be  as  sad  as  he  is  now. 

[5] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

The  words  are  almost  out  of  the  stone  with  antiquitj. 
But  it  is  needless  to  observe  that  Andrew  here  is 
writ  without  an  s,  and  is,  besides,  a  Christian  name. 
My  friend,  moreover,  conjectures  this  to  have  been 
the  founder  of  that  sect  of  laughing  philosophers 
since  called  Merry-andrews. 

To  waive,  therefore,  a  circumstance  which,  though 
mentioned  in  conformity  to  the  exact  rules  of 
biography,  is  not  greatly  material,  I  proceed  to 
things  of  more  consequence.  Indeed,  it  is  sufficiently 
certain  that  he  had  as  many  ancestors  as  the  best 
man  living,  and,  perhaps,  if  we  look  five  or  six  hun- 
dred years  backwards,  might  be  related  to  some 
persons  of  very  great  figure  at  present,  whose  ances- 
tors within  half  the  last  century  are  buried  in  as 
great  obscurity.  But  suppose,  for  argument's  sake, 
we  should  admit  that  he  had  no  ancestors  at  all,  but 
had  sprung  up,  according  to  the  modern  phrase,  out 
of  a  dunghill,  as  the  Athenians  pretended  they  them- 
selves did  from  the  earth,  would  not  this  autokopros^ 
have  been  justly  entitled  to  all  the  praise  arising 
from  his  own  virtues  ?  Would  it  not  be  hard  that  a 
man  who  hath  no  ancestors  should  therefore  be  ren- 
dered incapable  of  acquiring  honour ;  when  we  see 
so  many  who  have  no  virtues  enjoying  the  honour  of 
their  forefathers  ?  At  ten  years  old  (  by  which  time 
his  education  was  advanced  to  writing  and  reading  ) 
1  In  English,  sprung  from  a  dunghill. 

[6] 


A    SPIRITED    RIDER 

he  was  bound  an  apprentice,  according  to  the  statute, 
to  Sir  Thomas  Booby,  an  uncle  of  Mr.  Booby's  by 
the  father"'s  side.  Sir  Tlionms  having  then  an  estate 
in  his  own  hands,  the  young  Andrews  was  at  first 
employed  in  what  in  the  country  they  call  keeping 
birds.  His  office  was  to  perform  the  part  the  ancients 
assigned  to  the  god  Priapus,  which  deity  the  moderns 
call  by  the  name  of  Jack  o'  Lent ;  but  his  voice 
being  so  extremely  musical,  that  it  rather  allured 
the  birds  than  terrified  them,  he  was  soon  trans- 
planted from  the  fields  into  the  dog-kennel,  where 
he  was  placed  under  the  huntsman,  and  made  what 
the  sportsmen  term  whip})er  -  in.  For  this  place 
likewise  the  sweetness  of  his  voice  disqualified  him  ; 
the  dogs  preferring  the  melody  of  his  chiding  to  all 
the  alluring  notes  of  the  huntsman,  who  soon  became 
so  incensed  at  it,  that  he  desired  Sir  Thomas  to  pro- 
vide otherwise  for  him,  and  constantly  laid  every  fault 
the  dogs  were  at  to  the  account  of  the  poor  boy, 
who  was  now  transplanted  to  the  stable.  Here  he 
soon  gave  proofs  of  strength  and  agility  beyond  his 
years,  and  constantly  rode  the  most  spirited  and 
vicious  horses  to  water,  with  an  intrepidity  which  sur- 
prised every  one.  While  he  was  in  this  station,  he 
rode  several  races  for  Sir  Thomas,  and  this  with  such 
expertness  and  success,  that  the  neighbouring  gentle- 
men frequently  solicited  the  knight  to  permit  little 
Joey  ( for  so  he  was  called )  to  ride  their  matches. 

in 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

The  best  gamesters,  before  they  laid  their  money, 
always  inquired  which  horse  little  Joey  was  to  ride  ; 
and  the  bets  were  rather  proportioned  by  the  rider 
than  by  the  horse  himself;  especially  after  he  had 
scornfully  refused  a  considerable  bribe  to  play  booty 
on  such  an  occasion.  This  extremely  raised  his  char- 
acter, and  so  pleased  the  Lady  Booby,  that  she  desired 
to  have  him  (  being  now  seventeen  years  of  age  )  for 
her  own  footboy. 

Joey  was  now  preferred  from  the  stable  to  attend 
on  his  lady,  to  go  on  her  errands,  stand  behind 
her  chair,  wait  at  her  tea-table,  and  carry  her  prayer- 
book  to  church ;  at  which  place  his  voice  gave  him 
an  opportunity  of  distinguishing  himself  by  singing 
psalms  :  he  behaved  likewise  in  every  other  respect  so 
well  at  Divine  service,  that  it  recommended  him  to 
the  notice  of  Mr._Abraliam  Adams,  the  curate,  who 
took  an  opportunity  one  day,  as  he  was  drinking  a 
cup  of  ale  in  Sir  Thomas's  kitchen,  to  ask  the  young 
man  several  questions  concerning  religion  ;  with  his 
answers  to  which  he  was  wonderfully  pleased. 


[8] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

OF  MR.  ABRAHAM  ADAMS  THE  CURATE,  MRS.  SLIPSLOP  THE 
CHAMBERMAID,  AND  OTHERS. 

MR.  ABRAHAM  ADAMS  was  an  ex- 
cellent   scholar.     He    was    a    perfect 
master  of  the  Greek  and  Latin   lan- 
guages; to  which  he  added  a  great  share 
of  knowledge  in  the  Oriental  tongues ;  and  could  read 
and  translate  French,  Italian,  and  Spanish.     He  had 
applied  many  years  to  the  most  severe  study,  and 
had  treasured  up  a  fund  of  learning  rarely  to  be  met 
with  in   a  university.     He   was,  besides,  a  man  of 
good  sense,  good  parts,  and  good  nature ;  but  was  at 
the  same  time  as  entirely  ignorant  of  the  ways  of 
this  world  as  an  infant  just  entered  into  it  could 
possibly  be.     As    he   had   never   any    intention    to 
deceive,  so  he  never  suspected  such  a  design  in  others. 
He  was  generous,  friendly,  and  brave  to  an  excess  ; 
but  simplicity  Mas  his  characteristick  :  he  did,  no 
more  than  Mr.  Colley  Gibber,  apprehend  any  such 
passions  as  malice  and   envy  to  exist  in  mankind ; 
which  was  indeed  less  remarkable  in  a  country  parson 
than  in  a  gentleman  who  hath  passed  his  life  behind 

[9J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

the  scenes,  —  a  place  which  hath  been  seldom  thought 
the  school  of  innocence,  and  where  a  very  little 
observation  would  have  convinced  the  great  apologist 
that  those  passions  have  a  real  existence  in  the 
human  mind. 

His  virtue,  and  his  other  qualifications,  as  they 
rendered  him  equal  to  his  office,  so  they  made  him 
an  agreeable  and  valuable  companion,  and  had  so 
much  endeared  and  well  recommended  him  to  a 
bishop,  that  at  the  age  of  fifty  he  was  provided  with 
a  handsome  income  of  twenty-three  pounds  a  year  ; 
which,  however,  he  could  not  make  any  great  figure 
with,  because  he  lived  in  a  dear  country,  and  was  a 
little  encumbered  with  a  wife  and  six  children. 

It  was  this  gentleman,  who  having,  as  I  have  said, 
observed  the  singular  devotion  of  young  Andrews, 
had  found  means  to  question  him  concerning  several 
particulars ;  as,  how  many  books  there  were  in  the 
New  Testament?  which  were  they?  how  many  chap- 
ters they  contained  ?  and  such  like  :  to  all  which,  Mr. 
Adams  privately  said,  he  answered  much  better  than 
Sir  Thomas,  or  two  other  neighbouring  justices  of 
the  peace  could  probably  have  done. 

]\Ir.  Adams  was  wonderfully  solicitous  to  know  at 
what  time,  and  by  what  opportunity,  the  youth 
became  acquainted  with  these  matters  :  Joey  told 
him  that  he  had  very  early  learnt  to  read  and  write 
by  the  goodness  of  his  fatlier,  who,  though  he  had 

[10] 


INSTANCES    OF    APPLICATION 

not  interest  enough  to  get  him  into  a  charity  school, 
hecause  a  cousin  of  his  father's  landlord  did  not  vote 
on  the  right  side  for  a  churchwarden  in  a  borough 
town,  yet  had  been  himself  at  the  expense  of  six- 
pence a  week  for  his  learning.  He  told  him  likewise, 
that  ever  since  he  was  in  Sir  Thomas's  family  he  had 
employed  all  his  hours  of  leisure  in  reading  good 
books  ;  that  he  had  read  the  Bible,  the  Whole  Duty 
of  Man,  and  Thomas  a  Kempis ;  and  that  as  often 
as  he  could,  without  being  perceived,  he  had  studied 
a  great  good  book  which  lay  open  in  the  hall  window, 
where  he  had  read,  "  as  how  the  devil  carried  away 
half  a  church  in  sermon-time,  without  hurting  one 
of  the  congregation  ;  and  as  how  a  field  of  corn  ran 
away  down  a  hill  with  all  the  trees  upon  it,  and 
covered  another  man's  meadow."  This  sufficiently 
assured  Mr.  Adams  that  the  good  book  meant  could 
be  no  other  than  Baker's  Chronicle. 

The  curate,  surprized  to  find  such  instances  of 
industry  and  application  in  a  young  man  who  had 
never  met  with  the  least  encouragement,  asked  him. 
If  he  did  not  extremely  regret  the  want  of  a  liberal 
education,  and  the  not  having  been  born  of  parents 
who  might  have  indulged  his  talents  and  desire  of 
knowledge  ?  To  which  he  answered,  "  He  hoped  he 
had  profited  somewhat  better  from  the  books  he  had 
read  than  to  lament  his  condition  in  this  world. 
That,  for  his  part,  he  was  perfectly  content  with  the 

[11] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

state  to  which  he  was  called  ;  that  he  should  endeav- 
our to  improve  his  talent,  which  was  all  required  of 
him  ;  but  not  repine  at  his  own  lot,  nor  envy  those 
of  his  betters/''  "  Well  said,  my  lad,"  replied  the 
curate ;  "  and  I  wish  some  who  have  read  many 
more  good  books,  nay,  and  some  who  have  written 
good  books  themselves,  had  profited  so  much  by 
them.'" 

Adams  had  no  nearer  access  to  Sir  Thomas  or  my 
lady  than  through  the  waiting-gentlewoman  ;  for  Sir 
Thomas  was  too  apt  to  estimate  men  merely  by  their 
dress  or  fortune  ;  and  my  lady  was  a  woman  of  gaiety, 
who  had  been  blest  with  a  town  education,  and  never 
spoke  of  any  of  her  country  neighbours  by  any  other 
appellation  than  that  of  the  brutes.  They  both 
regarded  the  curate  as  a  kind  of  domestic  onlv, 
belonging  to  the  parson  of  the  parish,  who  was  at 
this  time  at  variance  with  the  knight ;  for  the  parson 
had  for  many  years  lived  in  a  constant  state  of  civil 
war,  or,  which  is  perhaps  as  bad,  of  civil  law,  with 
Sir  Thomas  himself  and  the  tenants  of  his  manor. 
The  foundation  of  this  quarrel  was  a  modus,  by  set- 
ting which  aside  an  advantage  of  several  shillings 
per  annum  would  have  accrued  to  the  rector  ;  but  he 
had  not  yet  been  able  to  accom})lish  his  purpose, 
and  had  reaped  hitherto  nothing  better  from  the 
suits  than  the  pleasure  (which  he  used  indeed  fre- 
quently to  say  was  no  small  one)  of  reflecting  that 

[12] 


FREQUENT    DISPUTES 

he  had  utterly  undone  many  of  the  poor  tenants, 
though  he  had  at  the  same  time  greatly  impoverished 
himself. 

Mrs.  Slipslop,  the  waiting-gentlewoman,  being 
herself  the  daughter  of  a  curate,  preserved  some 
respect  for  Adams  :  she  professed  great  regard  for 
his  learning,  and  would  frequently  dispute  with  him 
on  points  of  theology ;  but  always  insisted  on  a 
deference  to  be  paid  to  her  understanding,  as  she 
had  been  frequently  at  London,  and  knew  more  of 
the  world  than  a  country  parson  could  pretend  to. 

She  had  in  these  disputes  a  particular  advantage 
over  Adams :  for  she  was  a  mighty  affecter  of  hard 
words,  which  she  used  in  such  a  manner  that  the 
parson,  who  durst  not  offend  her  by  calling  her  words 
in  question,  was  frequently  at  some  loss  to  guess  her 
meaning,  and  would  have  been  much  less  puzzled  by 
an  Arabian  manuscript. 

Adams  therefore  took  an  opportunity  one  day, 
after  a  pretty  long  discourse  with  her  on  the  essence 
(or,  as  she  pleased  to  term  it,  the  incence)  of  matter, 
to  mention  the  case  of  young  Andrews ;  desiring  her 
to  recommend  him  to  her  lady  as  a  youth  very  sus- 
ceptible of  learning,  and  one  whose  instruction  in 
Latin  he  would  himself  undertake  ;  by  which  means 
he  might  be  qualified  for  a  higher  station  than  that 
of  a  footman  ;  and  added,  she  knew  it  was  in  his 
master's  power  easily  to  provide  for  him  in  a  better 

[  13  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

manner.     He  therefore  desired  that   the  boy  might 
be  left  behind  under  his  care. 

"  La  !  Mr.  Adams,"  said  Mrs.  Slipslop,  "  do  you 
think  my  lady  will  suffer  any  preambles  about  any 
such  matter  ?  She  is  going  to  London  very  concisely, 
and  I  am  confidous  would  not  leave  Joey  behind  her 
on  any  account ;  for  he  is  one  of  the  genteelest  young 
fellows  you  may  see  in  a  sunnner''s  day  ;  and  I  am 
confidous  she  would  as  soon  think  of  parting  with  a 
pair  of  her  grey  mares,  for  she  values  herself  as  much 
on  one  as  the  other."  Adams  would  have  interrupted, 
but  she  proceeded :  "  And  why  is  Latin  more  neces- 
sitous for  a  footman  than  a  gentleman  ?  It  is  very 
proper  that  you  clergymen  nuist  learn  it,  because 
you  can't  preach  without  it :  but  I  have  heard  gentle- 
men say  in  London,  that  it  is  fit  for  nobody  else.  I 
am  confidous  my  lady  would  be  angry  with  me  for 
mentioning  it ;  and  I  shall  draw  myself  into  no  such 
delemy."  At  which  words  her  lady''s  bell  rung,  and 
Mr.  Adams  was  forced  to  retire ;  nor  could  he  gain  a 
second  opportunity  with  her  before  their  London 
journey,  which  happened  a  few  days  afterwards. 
However,  Andrews  behaved  very  thankfully  and 
gratefully  to  him  for  his  intended  kindness,  which  he 
told  him  he  never  would  forget,  and  at  the  same 
time  received  from  the  good  man  many  admonitions 
concerning  the  regulation  of  his  future  conduct,  and 
his  perseverance  in  innocence  and  industry. 

[U] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

WHAT    HAPPENED     AFTER     THEIR    JOURNEY    TO    LONDON. 

NO  sooner  was  young  Andrews  arrived  at 
London  than  he  began  to  scrape  an 
acquaintance  with  his  party-coloured 
brethren,  who  endeavoured  to  make 
him  despise  his  former  course  of  hfe.  His  hair  was 
cut  after  the  newest  fashion,  and  became  his  chief 
care;  he  went  abroad  with  it  all  the  morning  in 
papers,  and  drest  it  out  in  the  afternoon.  They 
could  not,  however,  teach  him  to  game,  swear,  drink, 
nor  any  other  genteel  vice  the  town  abounded  with. 
He  applied  most  of  his  leisure  hours  to  music,  in 
which  he  greatly  improved  himself;  and  became  so 
perfect  a  connoisseur  in  that  art,  that  he  led  the 
opinion  of  all  the  other  footmen  at  an  opera,  and 
thev  never  condemned  or  applauded  a  single  song 
contrary  to  his  approbation  or  dislike.  He  was  a 
little  too  forward  in  riots  at  the  play-houses  and 
assemblies ;  and  when  he  attended  his  lady  at  church 
(which  was  but  seldom)  he  behaved  with  less  seeming 
devotion  than  formerly :  however,  if  he  was  out- 
wardly a  pretty  fellow,  his  morals  remained  entirely 

[15] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

uncorrupted,  though  lie  was  at  the  same  time  smarter 
and  genteeler  than  any  of  the  beaus  in  town,  either 
in  or  out  of  Hvery. 

His  lady,  who  had  often  said  of  him  that  Joey 
was  the  handsomest  and  genteelest  footman  in  the 
kingdom,  but  that  it  was  pity  he  wanted  spirit, 
began  now  to  find  that  fault  no  longer  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, she  was  frequently  heard  to  cry  out,  "  Ay, 
there  is  some  life  in  this  fellow."  She  plainly  saw 
the  effects  which  the  town  air  hath  on  the  soberest 
constitutions.  She  would  now  walk  out  with  him 
into  Hyde  Park  in  a  morning,  and  when  tired,  which 
happened  almost  every  minute,  would  lean  on  his 
arm,  and  converse  with  him  in  great  familiarity. 
Whenever  she  stept  out  of  her  coach,  she  would  take 
him  by  the  hand,  and  sometimes,  for  fear  of  stum- 
bling, press  it  very  hard  ;  she  admitted  him  to  deliver 
messages  at  her  bedside  in  a  morning,  leered  at  him 
at  table,  and  indulged  him  in  all  those  innocent 
freedoms  which  women  of  figure  may  permit  without 
the  least  sully  of  their  virtue. 

But  though  their  virtue  remains  unsullied,  yet 
now  and  then  some  small  arroAvs  will  glance  on  the 
shadow  of  it,  their  reputation  ;  and  so  it  fell  out  to 
Lady  Booby,  who  happened  to  be  walking  arm-in- 
arm with  Joey  one  morning  in  Hyde  Park,  when 
Lady  Tittle  and  Lady  Tattle  came  accidentally  by 
in  their  coach.     "  Bless  me,"  says  Lady  Tittle,  "  can 

[16] 


A    WHISPERED    SCANDAL 

I  believe  my  eyes  ?  Is  thcat  Lady  Booby  ? "  — 
"  Surely,""  says  Tattle.  "  But  what  makes  you  sur- 
prized ? "  —  "  Why,  is  not  that  her  footman  ?  " 
replied  Tittle.  At  which  Tattle  laughed,  and  cried, 
"  An  old  business,  I  assure  you  :  is  it  possible  you 
should  not  have  heard  it.''  The  whole  town  hath 
known  it  this  half-year.""  The  consequence  of  this 
interview  was  a  whisper  through  a  hundred  visits, 
which  were  separately  performed  by  the  two  ladies  ^ 
the  same  afternoon,  and  might  have  had  a  mischiev- 
ous effect,  had  it  not  been  stopt  by  two  fresh  repu- 
tations which  were  published  the  day  afterwards, 
and  engrossed  the  whole  talk  of  the  town. 

But,  whatever  opinion  or  suspicion  the  scandalous 
inclination  of  defamers  might  entertain  of  Lady 
Booby's  innocent  freedoms,  it  is  certain  they  made 
no  impression  on  young  Andrews,  who  never  offered 
to  encroach  beyond  the  liberties  which  his  lady 
allowed  him,  —  a  behaviour  which  she  imputed  to 
the  violent  respect  he  preserved  for  her,  and  which 
served  only  to  heighten  a  something  she  began  to 
conceive,  and  which  the  next  chapter  will  open  a 
little  farther. 

1  It  may  seem  an  absurdity  that  Tattle  should  visit,  as  she 
actually  did,  to  spread  a  known  scandal  :  but  the  reader  may 
reconcile  this  by  supposing,  with  me,  that,  notwithstanding 
what  she  says,  this  was  her  first  acquaintance  with  it. 

VOL.  I.  — 2  [!'''] 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

THE  DEATH  OF  SHI  THOMAS  BOOBY,  WITH  THE  AF- 
FECTIONATE AND  MOURNFUL  BEHAVIOUR  OF  HIS 
WIDOW,  AND  THE  GREAT  PURITY  OF  JOSEPH 
ANDREWS. 

|A  T  this  time  an  accident  happened  which  put 
/^k  a  stop  to  those  agreeable  walks,  which 
/  ^^  probably  would  have  soon  puffed  up  the 
"^  "^^  cheeks  of  Fame,  and  caused  her  to  blow 
her  brazen  trumpet  through  the  town ;  and  this  was 
no  other  than  the  death  of  Sir  Thomas  Booby,  who, 
departing  this  life,  left  his  disconsolate  lady  confined 
to  her  house,  as  closely  as  if  she  herself  had  been 
attacked  by  some  violent  disease.  During  the  first 
six  days  the  poor  lady  admitted  none  but  Mrs. 
Slipslop,  and  three  female  friends,  who  made  a  party 
at  cards :  but  on  the  seventh  she  ordered  Joey, 
whom,  for  a  good  reason,  we  shall  hereafter  call 
Joseph,  to  bring  up  her  tea-kettle.  The  lady  being 
in  bed,  called  Joseph  to  her,  bade  him  sit  down,  and, 
having  accidentally  laid  her  hand  on  his,  she  asked 
him  if  he  had  ever  been  in  love.     Joseph  answered, 

[18] 


DESIGNS    UPON    JOSEPH 

with  some  confusion,  it  was  time  enough  for  one  so 
young  as  himself  to  think  on  such  things.  "  As 
young  as  you  are,"  repHed  the  lady,  "  I  am  convinced 
you  are  no  stranger  to  that  passion.  Come,  Joey," 
says  she,  "  tell  me  truly,  who  is  the  happy  girl  whose 
eyes  have  made  a  conquest  of  you  ?  "  Joseph  returned, 
that  all  the  women  he  had  ever  seen  were  equally 
indifferent  to  him.  "  Oh  then,"  said  the  lady,  "you 
are  a  general  lover.  Indeed,  you  handsome  fellows, 
like  handsome  women,  are  very  long  and  difficult  in 
fixing  ;  but  yet  you  shall  never  persuade  me  that 
your  heart  is  so  insusceptible  of  affection  ;  I  rather 
impute  what  you  say  to  your  secrecy,  a  very  com- 
mendable quality,  and  what  I  am  far  from  being 
angry  with  you  for.  Nothing  can  be  more  unworthy 
in  a  young  man,  than  to  betray  any  intimacies  with 
the  ladies."  "  Ladies  !  madam,"  said  Joseph,  "  I  am 
sure  I  never  had  the  impudence  to  think  of  any  that 
deserve  that  name."  "  Don't  pretend  to  too  much 
modesty,"  said  she,  "  for  that  sometimes  may  be 
impertinent :  but  pray  answer  me  this  question. 
Suppose  a  lady  should  happen  to  like  you ;  suppose 
she  should  prefer  you  to  all  your  sex,  and  admit  you 
to  the  same  familiarities  as  you  might  have  hoped 
for  if  you  had  been  born  her  equal,  are  you  certain 
that  no  vanity  could  tempt  you  to  discover  her  ? 
Answer  me  honestly,  Joseph ;  have  you  so  much  more 
sense  and  so  much  more  virtue  than  you  handsome 

[19] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

young  fellows  generally  have,  who  make  no  scruple 
of  sacrificing  our  dear  reputation  to  your  pride,  with- 
out considering  the  great  obligation  we  lay  on  you 
by  our  condescension  and  confidence  ?  Can  you 
keep  a  secret,  my  Joey  ? "  "  Madam,"  says  he,  "  I 
hope  your  ladyship  can't  tax  me  with  ever  betraying 
the  secrets  of  the  family  ;  and  I  hope,  if  you  was  to 
turn  me  away,  I  might  have  that  character  of  you." 
"  I  don't  intend  to  turn  you  away,  Joey,"  said  she,  and 
sighed  ;  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  not  in  my  power."  She 
then  raised  herself  a  little  in  her  bed,  and  discovered 
one  of  the  whitest  necks  that  ever  w  as  seen  ;  at  which 
Joseph  blushed.  "  La !  "  says  she,  in  an  affected 
surprize,  "what  am  I  doing?  I  have  trusted  myself 
with  a  man  alone,  naked  in  bed  ;  suppose  you  should 
have  any  wicked  intentions  upon  my  honour,  how 
should  I  defend  myself?"  Joseph  protested  that  he 
never  had  the  least  evil  design  against  her.  "  No," 
says  she,  "  perhaps  you  may  not  call  your  designs 
wicked  ;  and  perhaps  they  are  not  so."  —  He  swore 
they  were  not.  *'  You  misunderstand  me,"  says  she; 
"  I  mean  if  they  were  against  my  honour,  they  may 
not  be  wicked ;  but  the  world  calls  them  so.  But 
then,  say  you,  the  world  will  never  know  anything 
of  the  matter  ;  yet  would  not  that  be  trusting  to 
your  secrecy  ?  Must  not  my  reputation  be  then  in 
your  power  ?  Would  you  not  then  be  my  master  ?  " 
Joseph    begged  her   ladyship  to  be  comforted ;  for 

[20] 


JOSEPH^S    PURITY 

that  he  would  never  imagine  the  least  wicked  thing 
against  her,  and  that  he  had  rather  die  a  thousand 
deaths  than  give  her  any  reason  to  suspect  him. 
*'  Yes/**  said  she,  "  I  must  have  reason  to  suspect  vou. 
Are  you  not  a  man  ?  and,  without  vanity,  I  may 
pretend  to  some  charms.  But  perhaps  you  may  fear  I 
should  prosecute  you  ;  indeed  I  hope  you  do  ;  and  yet 
Heaven  knows  I  should  never  have  the  confidence 
to  appear  before  a  court  of  justice ;  and  you  know, 
Joey,  I  am  of  a  forgiving  temper.  Tell  me,  Joey, 
don't  you  think  I  should  forgive  you  ? ""  —  "  Indeed, 
madam,"  says  Joseph,  "  I  will  never  do  anything  to 
disoblige  your  ladyship."  —  "  How^"  says  she,  "  do 
you  think  it  would  not  disoblige  me  then  ?  Do  you 
think  I  would  willingly  suifer  you?"  —  "I  don't 
understand  you,  madam,"  says  Joseph.  —  "  Don't 
you  ? "  said  she,  "  then  you  are  either  a  fool,  or 
pretend  to  be  so  ;  I  find  I  was  mistaken  in  you.  So 
get  you  downstairs,  and  never  let  me  see  your  face 
again  ;  your  pretended  innocence  cannot  impose  on 
me."  —  "  Madam,"  said  Joseph,  "  I  would  not  have 
your  ladyship  think  any  evil  of  me.  I  have  always 
endeavoured  to  be  a  dutiful  servant  both  to  you  and 
my  master."  —  "  O  thou  villain  !  "  answered  my  lady  ; 
"  why  didst  thou  mention  the  name  of  that  dear 
man,  unless  to  torment  me,  to  bring  his  precious 
memory  to  my  mind  ?  "  (and  then  she  burst  into  a 
fit  of  tears.)     "  Get  thee  from  my  sight !     I    shall 

[21] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

never  endure  thee  more."  At  which  words  she 
turned  away  from  liim  ;  and  Joseph  retreated  from 
the  room  in  a  most  disconsolate  condition,  and  writ 
that  letter  which  the  reader  will  find  in  the  next 
chapter. 


[22  ] 


CHAPTER    SIX 

HOW  JOSEPH    ANDREWS  WRIT  A    LE'lTER  TO   HIS    SISTER 

PAMELA. 

"  To  Mrs.  Pamela  Andrews,  living  with  Squire  Booby. 

DEAR  SISTER,  —  Since  I  received  your 
letter  of  your  good  lady's  death,  we  have 
had  a  misfortune  of  the  same  kind  in  our 
family.  My  worthy  master  Sir  Thomas 
died  about  four  days  ago ;  and,  what  is  worse,  my  poor 
lady  is  certainly  gone  distracted.  None  of  the  servants 
expected  her  to  take  it  so  to  heart,  because  they  quar- 
relled almost  every  day  of  their  lives  :  but  no  more  of 
that,  because  you  know,  Pamela,  I  never  loved  to  tell 
the  secrets  of  my  master's  family ;  but  to  be  sure  you 
must  have  known  they  never  loved  one  another ;  and  I 
have  heard  her  ladyship  wish  his  honour  dead  above  a 
thousand  times ;  but  nobody  knows  what  it  is  to  lose  a 
friend  till  they  have  lost  him. 

"  Don't  tell  anybody  what  I  write,  because  I  should 
not  care  to  have  folks  say  I  discover  what  passes  in  our 
family  ;  but  if  it  had  not  been  so  great  a  lady,  I  should 
have  thought  she  had  had  a  mind  tome.  Dear  Pamela, 
don't  tell  anybody ;  but  she  ordered  me  to  sit  down  by 
her  bedside,  when  she  was  in  naked  bed  ;  and  she  held 
my  hand,  and  talked  exactly  as  a  lady  does  to  her  sweet- 
heart in  a  stage-play,  which    I    have  seen  in  Covent 

[23] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Garden,  while  she  Avanted  him  to  be  no  better  than  he 
should  be. 

"  If  madam  be  mad,  I  shall  not  care  for  staying  long 
in  the  family  ;  so  I  heartily  wish  you  could  get  me  a 
place,  either  at  the  squire's,  or  some  other  neighbouring 
gentleman's,  unless  it  be  true  that  you  are  going  to  be 
married  to  parson  Williams,  as  folks  talk,  and  then  I 
should  be  very  willing  to  be  his  clerk ;  for  which  you 
know  I  am  qualified,  being  able  to  read  and  to  set  a 
psalm. 

"  I  fancy  I  shall  be  discharged  very  soon ;  and  the 

moment  I  am,  unless  I  hear  from  you,  I  shall  return  to 

my  old  master's  country-seat,  if  it  be  only  to  see  parson 

Adams,  who  is  the  best  man  in  the  world.     London  is 

a  bad  place,  and  there  is  so  little  good  fellowship,  that 

the   next-door    neighbours    don't    know   one   another. 

Pray  give  my  service  to  all  friends  that  inquire  for  me. 

So  I  rest 

"  Your  loving  brother, 

"  Joseph   Andrews." 

As  soon  as  Joseph  had  sealed  and  directed  this 
letter  he  walked  downstairs,  where  he  met  Mrs.  Slip- 
slop, with  wliom  we  shall  take  this  opportunity  to 
bring  the  reader  a  little  better  acquainted.  She  was 
a  maiden  gentlewoman  of  about  forty-five  years  of 
age,  who,  having  made  a  small  slip  in  her  youth,  had 
continued  a  good  maid  ever  since.  She  was  not  at 
this  time  remarkably  handsome  ;  being  very  short, 
and  rather  too  corpulent  in  body,  and  somewhat  red, 
with  the  addition  of  pimples  in  the  face.     Her  nose 

[24] 


MRS.    SLIPSLOP 

was  likewise  rather  too  large,  and  her  eyes  too  little; 
nor  did  she  resemble  a  cow  so  much  in  her  breath  as 
in  two  brown  globes  Avhich  she  carried  before  her; 
one  of  her  legs  was  also  a  little  shorter  than   the 
other,  which  occasioned  her  to  limp  as  she  walked. 
This  fair  creature  had  long  cast  the  eyes  of  affection 
on  Joseph,  in  which  she  had  not  met  with  quite  so 
good  success  as  she  probably  wished,  though,  besides 
the  allurements  of  her  native  charms,  she  had  given 
him  tea,  sweetmeats,  wine,  and  many  other  delicacies, 
of  which,  by  keeping  the  keys,  she  had  the  absolute 
command.     Joseph,  however,  had  not  returned  the 
least  gratitude  to  all  these  favours,  not  even  so  much 
as  a  kiss ;  though  I  would  not  insinuate  she  was  so 
easily  to  be  satisfied ;  for  surely  then  he  would  have 
been  highly  blameable.     The  truth  is,  she  was  arrived 
at  an  age  when  she  thought  she  might  indulge  her- 
self in  any  liberties  with  a  man,  without  the  danger 
of  bringing  a  third  person  into  the  world  to  betray 
them.     She  imagined  that  by  so  long  a  self-denial 
she  had  not  only  made  amends  for  the  small  slip  of 
her  youth  above  hinted  at,  but  had  likewise  laid  up 
a  quantity  of  merit  to  excuse  any  future  failings. 
In  a  word,  she  resolved  to  give  a  loose  to  her  amorous 
inclinations,  and  to    pay  off  the  debt  of  pleasure 
which  she  found  she  owed  herself,  as  fast  as  possible. 
With  these  charms  of  person,  and  in  this  disposi- 
tion of  mind,  she  encountered  poor  Joseph  at  the 

[25] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  drink 
a  glass  of  something  good  this  morning.  Joseph, 
whose  spirits  were  not  a  little  cast  down,  very 
readily  and  thankfully  accepted  the  offer ;  and 
together  they  went  into  a  closet,  where,  having 
delivered  him  a  full  glass  of  ratafia,  and  desired  him 
to  sit  down,  Mrs.  Slipslop  thus  began  :  — 

"  Sure  nothing  can  be  a  more  simple  contract  in 
a  woman  than  to  place  lier  affections  on  a  boy.  If 
I  had  ever  thought  it  would  have  been  my  fate,  I 
should  have  wished  to  die  a  thousand  deaths  rather 
than  live  to  see  that  day.  If  we  like  a  man,  the 
lightest  hint  sophisticates.  Whereas  a  boy  proposes 
upon  us  to  break  through  all  the  regulations  of 
modesty,  before  we  can  make  any  oppression  upon 
him.""  Joseph,  who  did  not  understand  a  word  she 
said,  answered,  "  Yes,  madam."  —  "  Yes,  madam  !  " 
replied  Mrs.  Slipslop  with  some  warmth,  "  Do  you 
intend  to  result  my  passion  ?  Is  it  not  enough, 
ungrateful  as  you  are,  to  make  no  return  to  all  the 
favours  I  have  done  you  ;  but  you  must  treat  me 
with  ironing  ?  Barbarous  monster !  how  have  I 
deserved  that  my  passion  should  be  resulted  and 
treated  with  ironing  ?  *"  "  Madam,"  answered  Joseph, 
"  I  don't  understand  your  hard  words ;  but  I  am 
certain  you  have  no  occasion  to  call  me  ungrateful, 
for,  so  far  from  intending  you  any  wrong,  I  have 
always  loved  you  as  well  as  if  you  had  been  my  own 

[26] 


V 


JOSEPH'S    ESCAPE 

mother."  "  How,  sirrah  ! "  says  Mrs.  Shpslop  in  a 
rage;  "your  own  mother.''  Do  you  assinuate  that 
I  am  old  enougli  to  be  your  mother  ?  I  don't 
know  what  a  striphng  may  think,  but  I  beheve  a 
man  would  refer  me  to  any  green-sickness  silly  girl 
whatsomdever :  but  I  ought  to  despise  you  rather 
than  be  angry  with  you,  for  referring  the  conver- 
sation of  girls  to  that  of  a  woman  of  sense."  — 
"  Madam,"  says  Joseph,  "  I  am  sure  I  have  always 
valued  the  honour  you  did  me  by  your  conversation, 
for  I  know  you  are  a  woman  of  learning."  —  "  Yes, 
but,  Joseph,"  said  she,  a  little  softened  by  the  com- 
pliment to  her  learning,  "if  you  had  a  value  for  me, 
you  certainly  would  have  found  some  method  of 
showing  it  me  ;  for  I  am  convicted  you  must  see  the 
value  I  have  for  you.  Yes,  Joseph,  my  eyes,  whether 
I  would  or  no,  nmst  have  declared  a  passion  I  cannot 
conquer.  —  Oh  !  Joseph  !  " 

As  when  a  hungry  tigress,  who  long  has  traversed 
the  woods  in  fruitless  search,  sees  within  the  reach  of 
her  claws  a  lamb,  she  prepares  to  leap  on  her  prey  ; 
or  as  a  voracious  pike,  of  immense  size,  surveys 
through  the  liquid  element  a  roach  or  gudgeon, 
which  cannot  escape  her  jaws,  opens  them  wide  to 
swallow  the  little  fish ;  so  did  Mrs.  Slipslop  prepare 
to  lay  her  violent  amorous  hands  on  the  poor  Joseph, 
when  luckily  her  mistress's  bell  rung,  and  delivered 
the   intended    martyr  from   her  clutches.     She  was 

[27  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREAVS 

obliged  to  leave  him  abruptly,  and  to  defer  the 
execution  of  her  purpose  till  some  other  time.  We 
shall  therefore  return  to  the  Lady  Booby,  and  give 
our  reader  some  account  of  her  behaviour,  after  she 
was  left  by  Joseph  in  a  temper  of  mind  not  greatly 
different  from  that  of  the  inflamed  Slipslop. 


[28] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

SAYINGS  OF  WISE  MEN.  A  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  THE  LADY 
AND  HER  MAID  ;  AND  A  PANEGYRIC,  OR  RATHER 
SATIRE,  ON  THE  PASSION  OF  LOVE,  IN  THE  SUBLIME 
STYLE. 

IT  is  the  observation  of  some  antient  sage, 
whose  name  I  have  forgot,  that  passions  operate 
differently  on  the  human  mind,  as  diseases  on 
the  body,  in  proportion  to  the  strength  or 
weakness,  soundness  or  rottenness,  of  the  one  and 
the  other. 

We  hope,  therefore,  a  judicious  reader  will  give 
himself  some  pains  to  observe,  what  we  have  so  greatly 
laboured  to  describe,  the  different  operations  of  this 
passion  of  love  in  the  gentle  and  cultivated  mind  of 
the  Lady  Booby,  from  those  which  it  effected  in  the 
less  polished  and  coarser  disposition  of  Mrs.  Slipslop. 
Another  philosopher,  whose  name  also  at  present 
escapes  my  memory,  hath  somewhere  said,  that  reso- 
lutions taken  in  the  absence  of  the  beloved  object 
are  very  apt  to  vanish  in  its  presence ;  on  both  which 
wise  sayings  the  following  chapter  may  serve  as  a 
comment. 

[29] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

No  sooner  had  Joseph  left  tlie  room  in  the  man- 
ner we  have  before  related  than  the  lady,  enraged 
at  her  disappointment,  began  to  reflect  with  severity 
on  her  conduct.  Her  love  was  now  changed  to  dis- 
dain, which  pride  assisted  to  torment  her.  She 
despised  herself  for  the  meanness  of  her  passion,  and 
Joseph  for  its  ill  success.  However,  she  had  now 
got  the  better  of  it  in  her  own  opinion,  and  deter- 
mined immediately  to  dismiss  the  object.  After 
much  tossing  and  turning  in  her  bed,  and  many 
soliloquies,  which  if  we  had  no  better  matter  for  our 
reader  we  would  give  him,  she  at  last  rung  the  bell 
as  above  mentioned,  and  was  presently  attended  by 
Mrs.  Slipslop,  who  was  not  much  better  pleased  with 
Joseph  than  the  lady  herself. 

"  Slipslop,"  said  Lady  Booby,  "  when  did  you  see 
Joseph  ?  "  The  poor  woman  was  so  surprized  at  the 
unexpected  sound  of  his  name  at  so  critical  a  time, 
that  she  had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  conceal  the 
confusion  she  was  under  from  her  mistress ;  whom 
she  answered,  nevertheless,  with  pretty  good  confi- 
dence, though  not  entirely  void  of  fear  of  suspicion, 
that  she  had  not  seen  him  that  morning.  "  I  am 
afraid,"  said  Lady  Booby,  "he  is  a  wild  young 
fellow. ""  — "  That  he  is,"  said  Slipslop,  "  and  a  wicked 
one  too.  To  my  knowledge  he  games,  drinks,  swears, 
and  fights  eternally  ;  besides,  he  is  horribly  indicted 
to   wenching."  —  "  Ay  !  "   said   the   lady,    "  I  never 

[30] 


A    DIALOGUE 

heard  that  of  him.'"  —  "  O  madam  !  "  answered  the 
other,  "  he  is  so  lewd  a  rascal,  that  if  your  ladyship 
keeps  him  much  longer,  you  will  not  have  one  virgin 
in  your  house  except  myself.  And  yet  I  can't  con- 
ceive what  the  wenches  see  in  him,  to  be  so  foolishly 
fond  as  they  are ;  in  my  eyes,  he  is  as  ugly  a  scare- 
crow as  I  ever  upheld.""  — "  Nay,"  said  the  lady, 
"  tlie  boy  is  well  enough."  —  "  La  !  ma'am,"  cries 
Slipslop,  "  1  think  him  the  ragmaticallest  fellow  in 
the  family."  —  "  Sure,  SHpslop,"  says  she,  "you  are 
mistaken  :  but  which  of  the  women  do  you  most 
suspect  ?  "  —  "  Madam,"  says  Slipslop,  "  there  is 
Betty  the  chambermaid,  I  am  almost  convicted,  is 
with  child  by  him."  —  "  Ay  !  "  says  the  lady,  "  then 
pray  pay  her  her  wages  instantly.  I  will  keep  no 
such  sluts  in  my  family.  And  as  for  Joseph,  you 
may  discard  him  too."  — "  Would  your  ladyship 
have  him  paid  off  immediately  ?"  cries  Slipslop,  "for 
perhaps,  when  Betty  is  gone  he  may  mend  :  and 
really  the  boy  is  a  good  servant,  and  a  strong  healthy 
luscious  boy  enough."  —  "  This  morning,"  answered 
the  lady  with  some  vehemence.  "  I  wish,  madam," 
cries  Slipslop,  "your  ladyship  would  be  so  good  as 
to  try  him  a  little  longer."  —  "I  will  not  have  my 
commands  disputed,"  said  the  lady ;  "  sure  you  are 
not  fond  of  him  yourself?"  —  "I,  madam!"  cries 
Slipslop,  reddening,  if  not  blushing,  "  I  should  be 
sorry    to    think   your  ladyship   had   any   reason   to 

[  31  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

respect  me  of  fondness  for  a  fellow  ;  and  if  it  be  your 
pleasure,  I  shall  fulfil  it  with  as  much  reluctance  as 
possible."  — "  As  little,  I  suppose  you  mean,'"  said 
the  lady ;  "  and  so  about  it  instantly."  Mrs.  Slip- 
slop went  out,  and  the  lady  had  scarce  taken  two 
turns  before  she  fell  to  knocking  and  ringing  with 
great  violence.  Slipslop,  who  did  not  travel  post 
haste,  soon  returned,  and  was  countermanded  as  to 
Joseph,  but  ordered  to  send  Betty  about  her  business 
without  delay.  She  went  out  a  second  time  with 
much  greater  alacrity  than  before ;  when  the  lady 
began  immediately  to  accuse  herself  of  want  of  reso- 
lution, and  to  apprehend  the  return  of  her  affection, 
with  its  pernicious  consequences  ;  she  therefore  applied 
herself  again  to  the  bell,  and  resunmioned  Mrs. 
Slipslop  into  her  presence  ;  who  again  returned,  and 
was  told  by  her  mistress  that  she  had  considered 
better  of  the  matter,  and  was  absolutely  resolved  to 
turn  away  Joseph  ;  which  she  ordered  her  to  do 
immediately.  Slipslop,  who  knew  the  violence  of 
her  lady's  temper,  and  would  not  venture  her  place 
for  any  Adonis  or  Hercules  in  the  universe,  left  her 
a  third  time ;  which  she  had  no  sooner  done,  than 
the  little  god  Cupid,  fearing  he  had  not  yet  done  the 
lady's  business,  took  a  fresh  arrow  with  the  sharpest 
point  out  of  his  quiver,  and  shot  it  directly  into  her 
heart ;  in  other  and  plainer  language,  the  lady's  pas- 
sion got  the  better  of  her  reason.     She  called  back 

[32] 


A    SATIRE    ON    LOVE 

Slipslop  once  more,  and  told  her  she  had  resolved  to 
see  the  boy,  and  examine  him  herself;  therefore  bid 
her  send  him  up.  This  wavering  in  her  mistress's 
temper  probably  put  something  into  the  waiting- 
gentlewoman's  head  not  necessary  to  mention  to  the 
sagacious  reader. 

Lady  Booby  was  going  to  call  her  back  again,  but 
could  not  prevail  with  herself.  The  next  considera- 
tion therefore  was,  how  she  should  behave  to  Joseph 
when  he  came  in.  She  resolved  to  presene  all  the 
dignity  of  the  woman  of  fashion  to  her  servant,  and 
to  indulge  herself  in  this  last  view  of  Joseph  (for 
that  she  was  most  certainly  resolved  it  should  be)  at 
his  own  expense,  by  first  insulting  and  then  discard- 
ing him. 

O  Love,  what  monstrous  tricks  dost  thou  play 
with  thy  votaries  of  both  sexes !  How  dost  thou 
deceive  them,  and  make  them  deceive  themselves  ! 
Their  follies  are  thy  delight !  Their  sighs  make 
thee  laugh,  and  their  pangs  are  thy  men-iment! 

Not  the  great  Rich,  who  turns  men  into  monkeys, 
wheel-barrows,  and  whatever  else  best  humours  his 
fancy,  hath  so  strangely  metamorphosed  the  human 
shape;  nor  the  great  Gibber,  who  confounds  all 
number,  gender,  and  breaks  through  every  rule  of 
grammar  at  his  will,  hath  so  distorted  the  English 
language  as  thou  doth  metamorphose  and  distort  the 
human  senses. 

VOL.  I.  —  3  •    [  33  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Thou  puttest  out  our  eyes,  stoppest  up  our  ears, 
and  takest  away  the  power  of  our  nostrils  ;  so  that 
we  can  neither  see  the  largest  object,  hear  the  loudest 
noise,  nor  smell  the  most  poignant  perfume.  Again, 
when  thou  pleasest,  thou  canst  make  a  molehill 
appear  as  a  mountain,  a  Jew's-harp  sound  like  a 
ti-umpet,  and  a  daisy  smell  like  a  violet.  Thou 
canst  make  cowardice  brave,  avarice  generous,  pride 
humble,  and  cruelty  tender-hearted.  In  short,  thou 
turnest  the  heart  of  man  inside  out,  as  a  juggler 
doth  a  petticoat,  and  bringest  whatsoever  pleaseth 
thee  out  from  it.  If  there  be  any  one  who  doubts 
all  this,  let  him  read  the  next  chapter. 


[34] 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

IN  WHICH,  AFTER  SOME  VERY  FINE  WRITING,  THE 
HISTORY  GOES  ON,  AND  RELATES  THE  INTERVIEW 
BETWEEN  THE  LADY  AND  JOSEPH  ;  WHERE  THE 
LATIER  HATH  SET  AN  EXAMPLE  WHICH  WE  DE- 
SPAIR OF  SEEING  FOLLOWED  BY  HIS  SEX  IN  THIS 
VICIOUS    AGE. 

N^'0\V  the  rake  Hesperus  had  called  for 
his  breeches,  and,  having  well  rubbed 
his  drowsy  eyes,  prepared  to  dress  him- 
self for  all  night ;  by  whose  example  his 
brother  rakes  on  earth  likewise  leave  those  beds  in 
which  they  had  slept  away  the  day.  Now  Thetis, 
the  good  housewife,  began  to  put  on  the  pot,  in 
order  to  regale  the  good  man  Phoebus  after  his 
daily  labours  were  over.  In  vulgar  language,  it  was 
in  the  evening  when  Joseph  attended  his  lady's 
orders. 

But  as  it  becomes  us  to  preserve  the  character  of 
this  lady,  who  is  the  heroine  of  our  tale ;  and  as  we 
have  naturally  a  wonderful  tenderness  for  that  beau- 
tiful part  of  the  human  species  called  the  fair  sex ; 
before  we  discover  too  much  of  her  frailty   to  our 

[35] 


JOSKPII    ANDREWS 

reader,  it  will  be  proper  to  give  him  a  lively  idea  of 
the  vast  temptation,  which  overcame  all  the  efforts 
of  a  modest  and  virtuous  mind  ;  and  then  we  humbly 
hope  his  good  nature  will  rather  pity  than  condenm 
the  imperfection  of  human  virtue. 

Nay,  the  ladies  themselves  will,  we  hope,  be  in- 
duced, by  considering  the  uncommon  variety  of 
charms  which  united  in  this  young  man's  person,  to 
bridle  their  rampant  passion  for  chastity,  and  be  at 
least  as  mild  as  their  violent  modesty  and  virtue  will 
permit  them,  in  censuring  the  conduct  of  a  woman 
who,  perhaps,  was  in  her  own  disposition  as  chaste 
as  those  pure  and  sanctified  virgins  who,  after  a  life 
innocently  spent  in  the  gaieties  of  the  town,  begin 
about  fifty  to  attend  twice  per  diem  at  the  polite 
churches  and  chapels,  to  return  thanks  for  the  grace 
which  preserved  them  formerly  amongst  beaus  from 
temptations  perhaps  less  powerful  than  what  now 
attacked  the  Lady  Booby. 

Mr.  Joseph  Andrews  was  now  in  the  one-and- 
twentieth  year  of  his  age.  He  was  of  the  highest 
degree  of  middle  stature ;  his  limbs  were  put  together 
with  great  elegance,  and  no  less  strength ;  his  legs 
and  thighs  were  formed  in  the  exactest  proportion  ; 
his  shoulders  were  br,oad  and  brawny,  but  yet  his 
arm  hung  so  easily,  that  he  had  all  the  symptoms 
of  strength  without  the  least  clumsiness.  His  hair 
was   of  a   nut-brown  colour,  and   was  displayed  in 

[36] 


A    FALSE    ACCUSATION 

wanton  ringlets  down  his  back  ;  his  forehead  was 
high,  his  eyes  dark,  and  as  full  of  sweetness  as  of  fire  ; 
his  nose  a  little  inclined  to  the  Roman ;  his  teeth 
white  and  even  ;  his  lips  full,  red,  and  soft ;  his  beard 
was  only  rough  on  his  chin  and  upper  lip ;  but  his 
cheeks,  in  which  his  blood  glowed,  were  overspread 
with  a  thick  down ;  his  countenance  had  a  tenderness 
joined  with  a  sensibility  inexpressible.  Add  to  this 
the  most  perfect  neatness  in  his  dress,  and  an  air 
which,  to  those  who  have  not  seen  many  noblemen, 
would  give  an  idea  of  nobility. 

Such  was  the  person  who  now  appeared  before  the 
lady.  She  viewed  him  some  time  in  silence,  and 
twice  or  thrice  before  she  spake  changed  her  mind  as 
to  the  manner  in  which  she  should  begin.  At  length 
she  said  to  him,  "  Joseph,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  such 
complaints  against  you  :  I  am  told  you  behave  so 
rudely  to  the  maids,  that  they  cannot  do  their  busi- 
ness in  quiet ;  I  mean  those  who  are  not  wicked 
enough  to  hearken  to  your  solicitations.  As  to 
others,  they  may,  perhaps,  not  call  you  rude ;  for 
there  are  wicked  sluts  who  make  one  ashamed  of 
one's  own  sex,  and  are  as  ready  to  admit  any  nau- 
seous familiarity  as  fellows  to  offer  it :  nay,  there 
are  such  in  my  family,  but  they  shall  not  stay  in 
it ;  that  impudent  trollop  who  is  with  child  by  you 
is  discharged  by  this  time." 

As  a  person  who  is  struck  through  the  heart  with 

[37] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

a  thunderbolt  looks  extremely    surprised,  nay,  and 

perhaps  is  so  too thus  the  poor  Joseph  received 

the  false  accusation  of  his  mistress ;  he  blushed  and 
looked  confounded,  which  she  misinterpreted  to  be 
symptoms  of  his  guilt,  and  thus  went  on  :  — 

"  Come  hither,  Joseph :  another  mistress  might 
discard  you  for  these  offences  ;  but  I  have  a  compas- 
sion for  your  youth,  and  if  I  could  be  certain  you 
would  be  no  moie  guilty  —  Consider,  child,""  laying 
her  hand  carelessly  upon  his,  "you  are  a  handsome 
young  fellow,  and  might  do  better  ;  you  might  make 
your  fortune."  "  Madam,""  said  Joseph,  "  I  do  assure 
your  ladyship  I  don"'t  know  whether  any  maid  in 
the  house  is  man  or  woman.""  "  Oh  fie !  Joseph,"" 
answered  the  lady,  "  don't  commit  another  crime  in 
denying  the  truth.  I  could  pardon  the  first ;  but 
I  hate  a  lyar.""  "  Madam,"  cries  Joseph,  "  I  hope 
your  ladyship  will  not  be  offended  at  my  asserting 
my  innocence ;  for,  by  all  that  is  sacred,  I  have 
never  offered  more  than  kissing.""  "  Kissing  ! "'"'  said 
the  lady,  with  great  discomposure  of  countenance, 
and  more  redness  in  her  cheeks  than  anger  in  her 
eyes ;  "  do  you  call  that  no  crime  ?  Kissing,  Joseph, 
is  as  a  prologue  to  a  play.  Can  I  believe  a  young 
fellow  of  your  age  and  complexion  will  be  content 
with  kissing?  No,  Joseph,  there  is  no  woman  who 
grants  that  but  will  grant  more ;  and  I  am  deceived 
greatly  in  you  if  you  would  not  put  her  closely  to  it. 

[38] 


A    TEMPTATION 

What  would  you  think,  Joseph,  if  I  admitted  you  to 
kiss  me  ?  "  Joseph  replied  he  would  sooner  die  than 
have  any  such  thought.  "  And  yet,  Joseph,"  re- 
turned she,  "  ladies  have  admitted  their  footmen  to 
such  familiarities ;  and  footmen,  I  confess  to  you, 
much  less  deserving  them  ;  fellows  without  half  your 
charms  —  for  such  might  almost  excuse  the  crime. 
Tell  me  therefore,  Joseph,  if  I  should  admit  you  to 
such  freedom,  what  would  you  think  of  me  't  —  tell 
me  freely."  "  Madam,"  said  Joseph,  "  I  should  think 
your  ladyship  condescended  a  great  deal  below  your- 
self." "  Pugh  !  "  said  she  ;  "  that  I  am  to  answer  to 
myself :  but  would  not  you  insist  on  more  ?  Would 
you  be  contented  with  a  kiss  ?  Would  not  your  in- 
clinations be  all  on  fire  rather  by  such  a  favour  ? " 
"  Madam,"  said  Joseph,  "  if  they  were,  I  hope  I 
should  be  able  to  controul  them,  without  suffering 
them  to  get  the  better  of  my  virtue."  You  have 
heard,  reader,  poets  talk  of  the  statue  of  Surprize ; 
you  have  heard  likewise,  or  else  you  have  heard  very 
little,  how  Surprize  made  one  of  the  sons  of  Croesus 
speak,  though  he  was  dumb.  You  have  seen  the  faces, 
in  the  eighteen -penny  gallery,  when,  through  the  trap- 
door, to  soft  or  no  music,  Mr.  Bridgewater,  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Mills,  or  some  other  of  ghostly  appearance,  hath 
ascended,  with  a  face  all  pale  with  powder,  and  a 
shirt  all  bloody  with  ribbons  ;  —  but  from  none  of 
these,  nor  from  Phidias  or  Praxiteles,  if  they  should 

[39] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

return  to  life  —  no,  not  fiom  the  inimitable  pencil  of 
my  friend  Hogarth,  could  you  receive  such  an  idea  of 
surprize  as  would  have  entered  in  at  your  eyes  had 
they  beheld  the  Lady  Booby  when  those  last  words 
issued  out  from  the  lips  of  Joseph.  "  Your  virtue  ! " 
said  the  lady,  recovering  after  a  silence  of  two 
minutes  ;  "  I  shall  never  survive  it.  Your  virtue  !  — 
intolerable  confidence !  Have  you  the  assurance  to 
pretend,  that  when  a  lady  demeans  herself  to  throw 
aside  the  rules  of  decency,  in  order  to  honour  you 
with  the  highest  favour  in  her  power,  your  virtue 
should  resist  her  inclination  ?  that,  when  she  had 
conquered  her  own  virtue,  she  should  find  an  obstruc- 
tion in  yours?"  "Madam,"  said  Joseph,  "I  can't 
see  why  her  having  no  virtue  should  be  a  reason 
against  my  having  any  ;  or  why,  because  I  am  a  man, 
or  because  I  am  poor,  my  virtue  must  be  subservient 
to  her  pleasures."  "  I  am  out  of  patience,"  cries  the 
lady  :  "  did  ever  mortal  hear  of  a  man's  virtue  ? 
Did  ever  the  greatest  or  the  gravest  men  pretend  to 
any  of  this  kind?  Will  magistrates  who  punish 
lewdness,  or  parsons  who  preach  against  it,  make  any 
scruple  of  committing  it  ?  And  can  a  boy,  a  strip- 
ling, have  the  confidence  to  talk  of  his  virtue  ?  " 
"  Madam,"  says  Joseph,  "  that  boy  is  the  brother  of 
Pamela,  and  would  be  ashamed  that  the  chastity  of 
his  family,  which  is  preserved  in  her,  should  be 
stained  in  him.     If  there  are  such  men  as  your  lady- 

[40] 


JOSEPH  S    DISMISSAL 

ship  mentions,  I  am  sorry  for  it ;  and  I  wish  they 
had  an  opportunity  of  reading  over  those  letters 
which  my  father  hath  sent  me  of  my  sister  Pamela's  ; 
nor  do  I  doubt  but  such  an  example  would  amend 
them."  "  You  impudent  villain  ! "  cries  the  lady  in 
a  rage ;  *'  do  you  insult  me  with  the  follies  of  my 
relation,  who  hath  exposed  himself  all  over  the 
country  upon  your  sister"'s  account  ?  a  little  vixen, 
whom  I  have  always  wondered  my  late  Lady  Booby 
ever  kept  in  her  house.  Sirrah  !  get  out  of  my  sight, 
and  prepare  to  set  out  this  night ;  for  I  will  order 
you  your  wages  immediately,  and  you  shall  l3e  stripped 
and  turned  aAvay."  "  Madam,"  says  Joseph,  "  I  am 
sorry  I  have  offended  your  ladyship,  I  am  sure  I  never 
intended  it."  "  Yes,  sirrah,"  cries  she,  "  you  have 
had  the  vanity  to  misconstrue  the  little  imiocent  free- 
dom I  took,  in  order  to  try  whether  what  I  had  heard 
was  true.  O '  my  conscience,  you  have  had  the 
assurance  to  imagine  I  was  fond  of  you  myself." 
Joseph  answered,  he  had  only  spoke  out  of  tender- 
ness for  his  virtue ;  at  which  w  ords  she  flew  into  a 
violent  passion,  and  refusing  to  hear  more,  ordered 
him  instantly  to  leave  the  room. 

He  was  no  sooner  gone  than  she  burst  forth  into 
the  following  exclamation  :  —  "  Whither  doth  this 
violent  passion  hurry  us  ?  What  meannesses  do  we 
submit  to  from  its  impulse !  Wisely  we  resist  its 
first  and  least   approaches ;  for  it  is  then    only  we 

[41] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

can  assure  ourselves  the  victory.  No  woman  could 
ever  safely  say,  so  far  only  will  I  go.  Have  I  not 
exposed  myself  to  the  refusal  of  my  footman  ?  I 
cannot  bear  the  reflection."  Upon  which  she  ap- 
plied herself  to  the  bell,  and  rung  it  with  infinite 
more  violence  than  was  necessary  —  the  faithful 
Slipslop  attending  near  at  hand :  to  say  the  truth, 
she  had  conceived  a  suspicion  at  her  last  interview 
with  her  mistress,  and  had  waited  ever  since  in  the 
antechamber,  having  carefully  applied  her  ears  to 
the  keyhole  during  the  whole  time  that  the  preced- 
ing conversation  passed  between  Joseph  and  the 
lady. 


[42] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

WHAT  PASSED  BETWEEN  THE  LADY  AND  MRS.  SLIPSLOP ; 
IN  WHICH  WE  PROPHESY  THERE  ARE  SOME  STROKES 
WHICH  EVERY  ONE  WILL  NOT  TRULY  COMPREHEND 
AT   THE    FIRST    READING. 

SLIPSLOP,"  said  the  lady,  « I  find  too  much 
reason  to  beHeve  all  thou  hast  told  me  of 
this  wicked  Joseph ;  I  have  determined  to 
part  with  him  instantly  ;  so  go  you  to  the 
steward,  and  bid  him  pay  his  wages."  Slipslop,  who 
had  preserved  hitherto  a  distance  to  her  lady  — 
rather  out  of  necessity  than  inclination — and  who 
thought  the  knowledge  of  this  secret  had  thrown 
down  all  distinction  between  them,  answered  her 
mistress  very  pertly  — "  She  wished  she  knew  her 
own  mind  ;  and  that  she  was  certain  she  would  call  her 
back  again  before  she  was  got  half-way  downstairs." 
The  lady  replied,  she  had  taken  a  resolution,  and 
was  resolved  t6  keep  it.  "  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  cries 
Slipslop,  "and,  if  I  had  known  you  would  have 
punished  the  poor  lad  so  severely,  you  should  never 
have  heard  a  particle  of  the  matter.  Here 's  a  fuss 
indeed  about  nothing  ! "     "  Nothing  !  "  returned  my 

[43] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

lady  ;  "  do  you  think  I  will  countenance  lewdness  in 
my  house  ?  "  "  If  you  will  turn  away  every  footman," 
said  Slipslop,  "  that  is  a  lover  of  the  sport,  you  must 
soon  open  the  coach  door  yourself,  or  get  a  set  of 
mophrodites  to  wait  upon  you  ;  and  I  am  sure  I 
hated  the  sight  of  them  even  singing  in  an  opera." 
"  Do  as  I  bid  you,"  says  my  lady,  "  and  don't  shock 
my  ears  with  your  beastly  language."  "  Marry- 
come-up,"  cries  Slipslop,  "  people''s  ears  are  some- 
times the  nicest  part  about  them." 

The  lady,  who  began  to  admire  the  new  style  in 
which  her  waiting-gentlewoman  delivered  herself,  and 
by  the  conclusion  of  her  speech  suspected  somewhat  of 
the  truth,  called  her  back,  and  desired  to  know  what 
she  meant  by  the  extraordinary  degree  of  freedom  in 
which  she  thought  proper  to  indulge  her  tongue. 
"  Freedom  ! "  says    Slipslop ;  "  I    don't    know    what 
you  call  freedom,  madam  ;  servants  have  tongues  as 
well  as  their  mistresses,"     "  Yes,  and  saucy  ones  too," 
answered  the  lady ;  "  but  I  assure  you  I  shall  bear 
no   such    impertinence."      "  Impertinence !    I    don't 
know  that  I  am  impertinent,"  says  Slipslop.     "  Yes, 
indeed  you  are,"  cries  my  lady,  "  and,    unless  you 
mend  your  manners,  this  house  is  no  place  for  you." 
"  Manners  ! "  cries  Slipslop  ;  "  I  never  was  thought 
to  want  manners  nor  modesty  neither ;  and  for  places, 
there  are  more  places  than  one  ;  and  I  know  what  I 
know."     "  What  do  you  know,  mistress  ?  "  answered 

[  44  J 


MISTRESS    AND    MAID 

the  lady.  "  I  am  not  obliged  to  tell  that  to  every- 
body," says  Slipslop,  "  any  more  than  I  am  obliged 
to  keep  it  a  secret."  "  I  desire  you  would  provide 
yourself,"  answered  the  lady.  "  With  all  my  heart," 
replied  the  waiting-gentlewoman  ;  and  so  departed 
in  a  passion,  and  slapped  the  door  after  her. 

The  lady  too  plainly  perceived  that  her  waiting- 
gentlewoman  knew  more  than  she  would  willingly 
have  had  her  acquainted  with ;  and  this  she  imputed 
to  Joseph's  having  discovered  to  her  what  passed  at 
the  first  interview.  This,  therefore,  blew  up  her 
rage  against  him,  and  confirmed  her  in  a  resolution 
of  parting  with  him. 

But  the  dismissing  Mrs.  Slipslop  was  a  point  not 
so  easily  to  be  resolved  upon.  She  had  the  utmost 
tenderness  for  her  reputation,  as  she  knew  on  that 
depended  many  of  the  most  valuable  blessings  of 
life ;  particularly  cards,  making  curtsies  in  public 
places,  and,  above  all,  the  pleasure  of  demolishing 
the  reputations  of  others,  in  which  innocent  amuse- 
ment she  had  an  extraordinary  delight.  She  there- 
fore determined  to  submit  to  any  insult  from  a 
servant,  rather  than  run  a  risque  of  losing  the  title 
to  so  many  great  privileges. 

She  therefore  sent  for  her  steward,  Mr.  Peter 
Pounce,  and  ordered  him  to  pay  Joseph  his  wages, 
to  strip  off  his  livery,  and  to  turn  him  out  of  the 
house  that  evening. 

[45] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

She  then  called  Slipslop  up,  and,  after  refreshing 
her  spirits  with  a  small  cordial,  which  she  kept  in 
her  closet,  she  began  in  the  following  manner  :  — 

"  Slipslop,  why  will  you,  who  know  my  passionate 
temper,  attempt  to  provoke  me  by  your  answers  ?  I 
am  convinced  you  are  an  honest  servant,  and  should  be 
very  unwilling  to  part  with  you.  I  believe,  likewise, 
you  have  found  me  an  indulgent  mistress  on  many 
occasions,  and  have  as  little  reason  on  your  side  to 
desire  a  change.  I  can't  help  being  surprized,  there- 
fore, that  you  will  take  the  surest  method  to  offend 
me  —  I  mean,  repeating  my  words,  which  you  know 
I  have  always  detested." 

The  prudent  waiting-gentlewoman  had  duly 
weighed  the  whole  matter,  and  found,  on  mature 
deliberation,  that  a  good  place  in  possession  was 
better  than  one  in  expectation.  As  she  found  her 
mistress,  therefore,  inclined  to  relent,  she  thought 
proper  also  to  put  on  some  small  condescension, 
which  was  as  readily  accepted ;  and  so  the  affair 
was  reconciled,  all  offences  forgiven,  and  a  present 
of  a  gown  and  petticoat  made  her,  as  an  instance 
of  her  lady's  future  favour. 

She  offered  once  or  twice  to  speak  in  favour  of 
Joseph ;  but  found  her  lady's  heart  so  obdurate,  that 
she  prudently  dropt  all  such  efforts.  She  considered 
there  were  more  footmen  in  the  house,  and  some 
as  stout  fellows,  though  •  not  quite  so  handsome,  as 

[46] 


LADY    BOOBY'S    PERPLEXITY 

Joseph ;  besides,  the  reader  hath  ah'eady  seen  her 
tender  advances  had  not  met  with  the  encourage- 
ment she  might  have  reasonably  expected.  She 
thought  she  had  thrown  away  a  great  deal  of  sack 
and  sweetmeats  on  an  ungrateful  rascal ;  and,  being 
a  little  inclined  to  the  opinion  of  that  female  sect, 
who  hold  one  lusty  young  fellow  to  be  nearly  as  good 
as  another  lusty  young  fellow,  she  at  last  gave  up 
Joseph  and  his  cause,  and,  with  a  triumph  over  her 
passion  highly  commendable,  walked  off  with  her 
present,  and  with  great  tranquillity  paid  a  visit  to  a 
stone-bottle,  which  is  of  sovereign  use  to  a  philoso- 
phical temper. 

She  left  not  her  mistress  so  easy.  The  poor  lady 
could  not  reflect  without  agony  that  her  dear  repu- 
tation was  in  the  power  of  her  servants.  All  her 
comfort  as  to  Joseph  was,  that  she  hoped  he  did  not 
understand  her  meaning ;  at  least  she  could  say  for 
herself,  she  had  not  plainly  expressed  anything  to 
him  ;  and  as  to  Mrs.  Slipslop,  she  imagined  she 
could  bribe  her  to   secrecy. 

But  what  hurt  her  most  was,  that  in  reality  she 
had  not  so  entirely  conquered  her  passion  ;  the  little 
god  lay  lurking  in  her  heart,  though  anger  and  dis- 
dain so  hoodwinked  her,  that  she  could  not  see  him. 
She  was  a  thousand  times  on  the  very  brink  of 
revoking  the  sentence  she  had  passed  against  the 
poor  youth.     Love  became  his  advocate,  and  whis- 

[  47  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

pered  many  things  in  his  favour.  Honour  Hkewise 
endeavoured  to  vindicate  liis  crime,  and  Pity  to  miti- 
gate his  punishment.  On  the  other  side,  Pride  and 
Revenge  spoke  as  loudly  against  him.  And  thus 
the  poor  lady  was  tortured  with  perplexity,  opposite 
passions  distracting  and  tearing  her  mind  different 
ways. 

So  have  I  seen,  in  the  hall  of  Westminster,  where 
Serjeant  Bramble  hath  been  retained  on  the  right 
side,  and  Serjeant  Puzzle  on  the  left,  the  balance  of 
opinion  (so  equal  were  their  fees)  alternately  incline 
to  either  scale.  Now  Bramble  throws  in  an  argument, 
and  Puzzle's  scale  strikes  the  beam  ;  again  Bramble 
shares  the  like  fate,  overpowered  by  the  weight  of 
Puzzle.  Here  Bramble  hits,  there  Puzzle  .strikes; 
here  one  has  you,  there  V  other  has  you  ;  till  at  last 
all  becomes  one  scene  of  confusion  in  the  tortured 
minds  of  the  hearers  ;  equal  wages  are  laid  on  the 
success,  and  neither  judge  nor  jury  can  possibly  make 
anything  of  the  matter  ;  all  things  are  so  enveloped 
by  the  careful  Serjeants  in  doubt  and  obscurity. 

Or,  as  it  happens  in  the  conscience,  where  honour 
and  honesty  pull  one  wayj  and  a  bribe  and  necessity 

another. If  it  was   our    present   business   only 

to  make  similes,  we  could  produce  many  more  to 
this  purpose  ;  but  a  simile  (  as  well  as  a  word  )  to  the 
wise.  —  We  shall  therefore  see  a  little  after  our  hero, 
for  whom  the  reader  is  doul)tless  in  some  pain. 

[48  J 


CHAPTER    TEN 

JOSEPH  WRITES  ANOTHER  LETTER  :  HIS  TRANSACTIONS 
WITH  MR.  PETER  POUNCE,  &C.,  WITH  HIS  DEPARTURE 
FROM  LADY  BOOBY. 

THE  disconsolate  Joseph  would  not  have 
had  an  understanding  sufficient  for  the 
principal  subject  of  such  a  book  as  this, 
if  he  had  any  longer  misunderstood  the 
drift  of  his  mistress ;  and  indeed,  that  he  did  not 
discern  it  sooner,  the  reader  will  be  pleased  to  impute 
to  an  unwillingness  in  him  to  discover  what  he  must 
condemn  in  her  as  a  fault.  Having  therefore  quitted 
her  presence,  he  retired  into  his  own  garret,  and 
entered  himself  into  an  ejaculation  on  the  number- 
less calamities  which  attended  beauty,  and  the  mis- 
fortune it  was  to  be  handsomer  than  one's  neighbours. 
He  then  sat  down,  and  addressed  himself  to  his 
sister  Pamela  in  the  following  words :  — 


■» 


"  Dear  Sister  Pamela,  —  Hoping  you  are  Avell, 
what  news  have  I  to  tell  you  !  O  Pamela  !  my  mistress 
is  fallen  in  love  with  me  —  that  is,  what  great  folks 
call  falling  in  love  —  she  has  a  mind  to  ruin  me  ;  but  I 
hope  I  shall  have  more  resolution  and  more  grace  than 
to  part  with  my  virtue  to  any  lady  upon  earth. 
VOL.  I.  —  4  [  "^9  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

"  Mr.  Aflams  hath  often  told  me,  that  chastity  is  as 
great  a  virtue  in  a  man  as  in  a  woman.  He  says  he 
never  knew  any  more  than  his  wife,  and  I  shall  endeav- 
our to  follow  his  example.  Indeed,  it  is  owing  entirely 
to  liis  excellent  sermons  and  advice,  together  with  your 
letters,  that  I  have  been  able  to  resist  a  temptation, 
which,  he  says,  no  man  complies  with,  but  he  repents 
in  this  world,  or  is  damned  for  it  in  the  next ;  and  why 
should  I  trust  to  repentance  on  my  deathbed,  since  I 
may  die  in  my  sleep.?  What  fine  things  are  good 
advice  and  good  examples  !  But  I  am  glad  she  turned 
me  out  of  the  chamber  as  she  did  :  for  I  had  once 
almost  forgotten  every  word  parson  Adams  had  ever 
said  to  me. 

«  I  don't  doubt,  dear  sister,  but  you  will  have  grace 
to  preserve  your  virtue  against  all  trials  ;  and  I  beg  you 
earnestly  to  pray  I  may  be  enabled  to  preserve  mine  ; 
for  truly  it  is  very  severely  attacked  by  more  than  one  ; 
but  I  hope  I  shall  copy  your  example,  and  that  of 
Joseph  my  namesake,  and  maintain  my  virtue  against 
all  temptations." 

Joseph  had  not  finished  his  letter,  when  he  was 
summoned  downstairs  by  Mr.  Peter  Pounce,  to 
receive  his  wages;  for,  besides  that  out  of  eight 
pounds  a  year  he  allowed  his  father  and  mother  four, 
he  had  been  obliged,  in  order  to  furnish  himself 
with  musical  instruments,  to  apply  to  the  generosity 
of  the  aforesaid  Peter,  who,  on  urgent  occasions, 
used  to  advance  the  servants  their  wages  :  not  before 
they  were  due,  but  before  they  were  payable ;  that 

[50] 


JOSEPH'S    DEPARTURE 

is,  perhaps,  half  a  year  after  they  were  due ;  and  this 
at  the  moderate  premium  of  fifty  per  cent,  or  a 
httle  more  :  by  which  charitable  methods,  together 
with  lending  money  to  other  people,  and  even  to  his 
own  master  and  mistress,  the  honest  man  had,  from 
nothing,  in  a  few  years  amassed  a  small  sum  of 
twenty  thousand  pounds  or  thereabouts. 

Joseph  having  received  his  little  remainder  of 
wages,  and  having  stript  off  his  livery,  was  forced  to 
borrow  a  frock  and  breeches  of  one  of  the  servants 
(for  he  was  so  beloved  in  the  family,  that  they  would 
all  have  lent  him  anything )  :  and,  being  told  by 
Peter  that  he  must  not  stay  a  moment  longer  in  the 
house  than  was  necessary  to  pack  up  his  linen,  which 
he  easily  did  in  a  very  narrow  compass,  he  took  a 
melancholy  leave  of  his  fellow-servants,  and  set  out 
at  seven  in  the  evening. 

He  had  proceeded  the  length  of  two  or  three 
streets,  before  he  absolutely  determined  with  him- 
self whether  he  should  leave  the  town  that  night,  or, 
procuring  a  lodging,  wait  till  the  morning.  At  last, 
the  moon  shining  very  bright  helped  him  to  come  to 
a  resolution  of  beginning  his  journey  immediately, 
to  which  likewise  he  had  some  other  inducements ; 
which  the  reader,  without  being  a  conjurer,  cannot 
possibly  guess,  till  we  have  given  him  those  hints 
which  it  may  be  now  proper  to  open. 

[51] 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

OF  SEVERAL  NEW  MATTERS  NOT  EXPECTED. 

IT  is  an  observation  sometimes  made,  that  to 
indicate  our  idea  of  a  simple  fellow,  we  say, 
he  is  easily  to  be  seen  through  :  nor  do  I 
believe  it  a  more  improper  denotation  of  a 
simple  book.  Instead  of  applying  this  to  any  par- 
ticular performance,  we  chuse  rather  to  remark  the 
contrary  in  this  history,  where  the  scene  opens  itself 
by  small  degrees  ;  and  he  is  a  sagacious  reader  who 
can  see  two  chapters  before  him. 

For  this  reason,  we  have  not  hitherto  hinted  a 
matter  which  now  seems  necessary  to  be  explained ; 
since  it  may  be  wondered  at,  first,  that  Joseph  made 
such  extraordinary  haste  out  of  town,  which  hath 
been  already  shewn ;  and  secondly,  which  will  be 
now  shewn,  that,  instead  of  proceeding  to  the  habi- 
tation of  his  father  and  mother,  or  to  his  beloved 
sister  Pamela,  he  chose  rather  to  set  out  full  speed 
to  the  Lady  Booby''s  country-seat,  which  he  had  left 
on  his  journey  to  London. 

Be  it  known,  then,  that  in  the  same  parish  where 
this  seat  stood  there  lived  a  young  girl  whom  Joseph 

[52] 


JOSEPH    AND    FANNY 

( though  the  best  of  sons  and  brothers)  longed  more 
impatiently  to  see  than  his  parents  or  his  sister. 
She  was  a  poor  girl,  who  had  formerly  been  bred  up 
in  Sir  John's  family  ;  whence,  a  little  before  the 
journey  to  London,  she  had  been  discarded  by  Mrs. 
Slipslop,  on  account  of  her  extraordinary  beauty: 
for  I  never  could  find  any  other  reason. 

This  young  creature  (who  now  lived  with  a  farmer 
in  the  parish)  had  been  always  beloved  b)^  Joseph, 
and  returned  his  affection.  She  was  two  years  only 
younger  than  our  hero.  They  had  been  acquainted 
from  their  infancy,  and  had  conceived  a  very  early 
liking  for  each  other  ;  which  had  grown  to  such  a 
degree  of  affection,  that  Mr.  Adams  had  with  much 
ado  prevented  them  from  marrying,  and  persuaded 
them  to  wait  till  a  few  years''  service  and  thrift  had  a 
little  improved  their  experience,  and  enabled  them 
to  live  comfortably  together. 

They  followed  this  good  man's  advice,  as  indeed 
his  word  was  little  less  than  a  law  in  his  parish  ;  for 
as  he  had  shown  his  parishioners,  by  an  uniform 
behaviour  of  thirty-five  years'  duration,  that  he  had 
their  good  entirely  at  heart,  so  they  consulted  him 
on  every  occasion,  and  very  seldom  acted  contrary 
to  his  opinion. 

Nothing  can  be  imagined  more  tender  than  was 
the  parting  between  these  two  lovers.  A  thousand 
sighs  heaved  the  bosom  of  Joseph,  a  thousand  tears 

[53] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

distilled  from  the  lovely  eyes  of  Fanny  (for  that  was 
her  name).  Though  her  modesty  would  only  suffer 
her  to  admit  his  eager  kisses,  her  violent  love  made 
her  more  than  passive  in  his  embraces  ;  and  she  often 
pulled  him  to  her  breast  with  a  soft  pressure,  which 
though  perhaps  it  would  not  have  squeezed  an  insect 
to  death,  caused  more  emotion  in  the  heart  of  Joseph 
than  the  closest  Cornish  hug  could  have  done. 

The  reader  may  perhaps  wonder  that  so  fond  a 
pair  should,  during  a  twelvemonth's  absence,  never 
converse  with  one  another :  indeed,  there  was  but 
one  reason  which  did  or  could  have  prevented  them  ; 
and  this  was,  that  poor  Fanny  could  neither  write 
nor  read :  nor  could  she  be  prevailed  upon  to  trans- 
mit the  delicacies  of  her  tender  and  chaste  passion 
by  the  hands  of  an  amanuensis. 

They  contented  themselves  therefore  with  frequent 
inquiries  after  each  other"'s  health,  with  a  mutual 
confidence  in  each  other's  fidelity,  and  the  prospect 
of  their  future  happiness. 

Having  explained  these  matters  to  our  reader,  and, 
as  far  as  possible,  satisfied  all  his  doubts,  we  return 
to  honest  Joseph,  whom  we  left  just  set  out  on  his 
travels  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

Those  who  have  read  any  romance  or  poetry, 
antient  or  modern,  must  have  been  informed  that 
love  hath  wings :  by  which  they  are  not  to  under- 
stand, as  some  young  ladies  by  mistake  have  done, 

[54]    ' 


A    FAMOUS    INN 

that  a  lover  can  fly  ;  the  writers,  by  this  ingenious 
allegory,  intending  to  insinuate  no  more  than  that 
lovers  do  not  niarcli  like  horse-guards  ;  in  short,  that 
they  put  the  best  leg  foremost ;  which  our  lusty 
youth,  who  could  walk  with  any  man,  did  so  heartily 
on  this  occasion,  that  within  four  hours  he  reached 
a  famous  house  of  hospitality  well  known  to  the 
western  traveller.  It  presents  you  a  lion  on  the 
sign-post :  and  the  master,  who  was  christened 
Timotheus,  is  connnonly  called  plain  Tim.  Some 
have  conceived  that  he  hath  particularly  chosen  the 
lion  for  his  sign,  as  he  doth  in  countenance  greatly 
resemble  that  magnanimous  beast,  though  his  dis- 
position savours  more  of  the  sweetness  of  the  lamb. 
He  is  a  person  well  received  among  all  sorts  of  men, 
being  qualified  to  render  himself  agreeable  to  any  ; 
as  he  is  well  versed  in  history  and  politics,  hath  a 
smattering  in  law  and  divinity,  cracks  a  good  jest, 
and  plays  wonderfully  well  on  the  French  horn. 

A  violent  storm  of  hail  forced  Joseph  to  take 
shelter  in  this  inn,  where  he  remembered  Sir  Thomas 
had  dined  in  his  way  to  town,  Joseph  had  no 
sooner  seated  himself  by  the  kitchen  fire  than 
Timotheus,  observing  his  livery,  began  to  condole 
the  loss  of  his  late  master  ;  who  was,  he  said,  his  very 
particular  and  intimate  acquaintance,  with  whom  he 
had  cracked  many  a  merry  bottle,  ay  many  a  dozen, 
in   his    time.     He    then    remarked,    that   all    these 

[55] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

things  were  over  now,  all  passed,  and  just  as  if  they 
had  never  been  ;  and  concluded  with  an  excellent 
observation  on  the  certainty  of  death,  which  his  wife 
said  was  indeed  very  true.  A  fellow  now  arrived  at 
the  same  inn  with  two  horses,  one  of  which  he 
was  leading  farther  down  into  the  country  to  meet 
his  master ;  these  he  put  into  the  stable,  and  came 
and  took  his  place  by  Joseph's  side,  who  immediately 
knew  him  to  be  the  servant  of  a  neighbouring  gentle- 
man, who  used  to  visit  at  their  house. 

This  fellow  was  likewise  forced  in  by  the  storm  ; 
for  he  had  orders  to  go  twenty  miles  farther  that 
evening,  and  luckily  on  the  same  road  which  Joseph 
himself  intended  to  take.  He,  therefore,  embraced 
this  opportunity  of  complimenting  his  friend  with 
his  master"'s  horse  (notwithstanding  he  had  received 
express  commands  to  the  contrary),  which  was 
readily  accepted ;  and  so,  after  they  had  drank  a 
loving  pot,  and  the  storm  was  over,  they  set  out 
together. 


[56] 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

CONTAINING      MANY       SURPRIZING      ADVENTURES  WHICH 

JOSEPH      ANDREWS      MET       WITH       ON       THE  ROAD, 

SCARCE      CREDIBLE     TO     THOSE     WHO     HAVE  NEVER 
TRAVELLED    IN    A    STAGE-COACH. 

NOTHING  remarkable  happened  on  the 
road  till  their  arrival  at  the  inn  to 
which  the  horses  were  ordered  ;  whither 
they  came  about  two  in  the  morning. 
The  moon  then  shone  very  bright ;  and  Joseph,  mak- 
ing his  friend  a  present  of  a  pint  of  wine,  and 
thanking  him  for  the  favour  of  his  horse,  notwith- 
standing all  entreaties  to  the  contrary,  proceeded  on 
his  journey  on  foot. 

He  had  not  gone  above  two  miles,  charmed  with 
the  hope  of  shortly  seeing  his  beloved  Fanny,  when 
he  was  met  by  two  fellows  in  a  narrow  lane,  and 
ordered  to  stand  and  deliver.  He  readily  gave  them 
all  the  money  he  had,  which  was  somewhat  less  than 
two  pounds  ;  and  told  them  he  hoped  they  would 
be  so  generous  as  to  return  him  a  few  shillings,  to 
defray  his  charges  on  his  way  home. 

One  of  the  ruffians  answered  with  an  oath,  "  Yes, 
we  '11  give  you  something  presently  :  but  first  strip 

[57] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

and  be  d — n'd  to  you."  —  "  Strip,""  cried  the  other, 
'*  or  I  '11  blow  your  brains  to  the  devil.""  Joseph,  re- 
uienibering  that  he  had  borrowed  his  coat  and  breeches 
of  a  friend,  and  that  he  should  be  ashamed  of  mak- 
ing any  excuse  for  not  returning  them,  replied,  he 
hoped  they  would  not  insist  on  his  clothes,  which 
were  not  worth  much,  but  consider  the  coldness  of 
the  night.  "  You  are  cold,  are  you,  you  rascal  ? '''' 
said  one  of  the  robbers :  "  I  '11  warm  you  with  a 
vengeance  ; ""  and,  damning  his  eyes,  snapped  a  pistol 
at  his  head ;  which  he  had  no  sooner  done  than  the 
other  levelled  a  blow  at  him  with  his  stick,  which 
Joseph,  who  was  expert  at  cudgel-playing,  caught 
with  his,  and  returned  the  favour  so  successfully  on  his 
adversary,  that  he  laid  him  sprawling  at  his  feet,  and 
at  the  same  instant  received  a  blow  from  behind, 
with  the  butt  end  of  a  pistol,  from  the  other  villain, 
which  felled  him  to  the  ground,  and  totally  deprived 
him  of  his  senses. 

The  thief  who  had  been  knocked  down  had  now 
recovered  himself;  and  both  together  fell  to  bela- 
bouring poor  Joseph  with  their  sticks,  till  they  were 
convinced  they  had  put  an  end  to  his  miserable 
being :  they  then  stripped  him  entirely  naked,  threw 
him  into  a  ditch,  and  departed  with  their  booty. 

The  poor  wretch,  who  lay  motionless  a  long  time, 
just  began  to  recover  his  senses  as  a  stage-coach 
came  by.     The   postillion,  hearing  a  man"'s  groans, 

[58] 


JOSEPH    ASKS    FOR    AID 

stopt  his  horses,  and  told  the  coachman  he  was  cer- 
tain there  was  a  dead  man  lying  in  the  ditch,  for  he 
heard  him  groan.  "  Go  on,  sirrah,"  says  the  coach- 
man ;  "  we  are  confounded  late,  and  have  no  time  to 
look  after  dead  men."  A  lady,  who  heard  what  the 
postillion  said,  and  likewise  heard  the  groan,  called 
eagerly  to  the  coachman  to  stop  and  see  what  was 
the  matter.  Upon  which  he  bid  the  postillion  alight, 
and  look  into  the  ditch.  He  did  so,  and  returned, 
"  that  there  was  a  man  sitting  upriglit,  as  naked  as 
ever  he  was  born."  —  "  O  J — sus  !  "  cried  the  lady  ; 
"  a  naked  man  !  Dear  coachman,  drive  on  and  leave 
him."  Upon  this  the  gentlemen  got  out  of  the 
coach  ;  and  Joseph  begged  them  to  have  mercy  upon 
him  :  for  that  he  had  been  robbed  and  almost  beaten 
to  death.  "  Robbed  ! "  cries  an  old  gentleman  : 
"  let  us  make  all  the  haste  imaginable,  or  we  shall 
be  robbed  too."  A  young  man  who  belonged  to  the 
law  answered,  "  He  wished  they  had  passed  by 
without  taking  any  notice  ;  but  that  now  they  might 
be  proved  to  have  been  last  in  his  company  ;  if  he 
should  die  they  might  be  called  to  some  account  for 
his  murder.  He  therefore  thought  it  advisable  to 
save  the  poor  creature's  life,  for  their  own  sakes,  if 
possible  ;  at  least,  if  he  died,  to  prevent  the  jury's 
findino;  that  thev  fled  for  it.  He  was  therefore  of 
opinion  to  take  the  man  into  the  coach,  and  cany 
him  to  the  next  inn."     The  lady  insisted,  "  That  he 

[59]     ' 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

slionkl  not  come  into  the  coach.  Tliat  if  they  hfted 
him  in,  she  would  herself  alight :  for  she  had  rather 
stay  in  that  place  to  all  eternity  than  ride  with  a 
naked  man."  The  coachman  objected,  "That  he 
could  not  suffer  him  to  be  taken  in  unless  somebody 
would  pay  a  shilling  for  his  carriage  the  four  miles."" 
Which  the  two  gentlemen  refused  to  do.  But  the 
lawyer,  who  was  afraid  of  some  mischief  happening 
to  himself,  if  the  wretch  was  left  behind  in  that 
condition,  saying  no  man  could  be  too  cautious  in 
these  matters,  and  that  he  remembered  very  extraor- 
dinary cases  in  the  books,  threatened  the  coachman, 
and  bid  him  deny  taking  him  up  at  his  peril ;  for 
that,  if  he  died,  he  should  be  indicted  for  his  murder  ; 
and  if  he  lived,  and  brought  an  action  against  him, 
he  would  willingly  take  a  brief  in  it.  These  words 
had  a  sensible  effect  on  the  coachman,  who  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  person  who  spoke  them  ;  and 
the  old  gentleman  above  mentioned,  thinking  the 
naked  man  would  afford  him  frequent  opportunities 
of  showing  his  wit  to  the  lady,  offered  to  join  with 
the  company  in  giving  a  mug  of  beer  for  his  fare ; 
till,  partly  alarmed  by  the  threats  of  the  one,  and 
partly  by  the  promises  of  the  other,  and  being  per- 
haps a  little  moved  with  compassion  at  the  poor 
creature's  condition,  who  stood  bleeding  and  shiver- 
ing with  the  cold,  he  at  length  agreed  ;  and  Joseph 
was  now  advancing  to  the  coach,  where,  seeing  the 

[60] 


AN    ACT    OF    KINDNESS 

lady,  who  held  the  sticks  of  her  fan  before  her  eyes, 
he  absolutely  refused,  miserable  as  he  was,  to  enter, 
unless  he  was  furnished  with  sufficient  covering  to 
prevent  giving  the  least  offence  to  decency  —  so  per- 
fectly modest  was  this  young  man ;  such  mighty 
effects  had  the  spotless  example  of  the  amiable 
Pamela,  and  the  excellent  sermons  of  Mr.  Adams, 
wrought  upon  him. 

Though  there  were  several  greatcoats  about  the 
coach,  it  was  not  easy  to  get  over  this  difficulty 
which  Joseph  had  started.  The  two  gentlemen 
complained  they  were  cold,  and  could  not  spare  a 
rag  •  the  man  of  wit  saying,  with  a  laugh,  that 
charity  began  at  home ;  and  the  coachman,  who  had 
two  greatcoats  spread  under  him,  refused  to  lend 
either,  lest  they  should  be  made  bloody :  the  lady's 
footman  desired  to  be  excused  for  the  same  reason, 
which  the  lady  herself,  notwithstanding  her  abhor- 
rence of  a  naked  man,  approved :  and  it  is  more  than 
probable  poor  Joseph,  who  obstinately  adhered  to 
his  modest  resolution,  must  have  perished,  unless 
the  postillion  (a  lad  who  hath  been  since  transported 
for  robbing  a  hen-roost)  had  voluntarily  stript  off  a 
greatcoat,  his  only  garment,  at  the  same  time  swear- 
ing a  great  oath  (for  which  he  was  rebuked  by  the 
passengers),  "  that  he  would  rather  ride  in  his  shirt 
all  his  life  than  suffer  a  fellow-creature  to  lie  in  so 
miserable  a  condition." 

[61] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Joseph,  having  put  on  the  greatcoat,  was  lifted 
into  the  coach,  which  now  proceeded  on  its  journey. 
He  declared  himself  almost  dead  with  the  cold, 
which  gave  the  man  of  wit  an  occasion  to  ask  the 
lady  if  she  could  not  accommodate  him  with  a  dram. 
She  answered,  with  some  resentment,  "  She  Mondered 
at  his  asking  her  such  a  question  ;  but  assured  him 
she  never  tasted  any  such  thing." 

The  lawyer  was  inquiring  into  the  circumstances 
of  the  robbery,  when  the  coach  stopt,  and  one  of  the 
ruffians,  putting  a  pistol  in,  demanded  their  money 
of  the  passengers,  who  readily  gave  it  them  ;  and 
the  lady,  in  her  fright,  delivered  up  a  little  silver 
bottle,  of  about  a  half-pint  size,  which  the  rogue, 
clapping  it  to  his  mouth,  and  drinking  her  health, 
declared,  held  some  of  the  best  Nantes  he  had  ever 
tasted  :  this  the  lady  afterwards  assured  the  company 
was  the  mistake  of  her  maid,  for  that  she  had  ordered 
her  to  fill  the  bottle  with  Hungary-water. 

As  soon  as  the  fellows  were  departed,  the  lawyer, 
who  had,  it  seems,  a  case  of  pistols  in  the  seat  of  the 
coach,  informed  the  company,  that  if  it  had  been 
daylight,  and  he  could  have  come  at  his  pistols,  he 
would  not  have  submitted  to  the  robbery  :  he  like- 
wise set  forth  that  he  had  often  met  highway- 
men when  he  travelled  on  horseback,  but  none 
ever  durst  attack  him  ;  concluding  that,  if  he  had 
not  been   more  afraid   for  the  lady  than   for  him- 

[62] 


THE    LAWYER'S    JESTS 

self,  he  should  not  have  now  parted  with  his  money 
so  easily. 

As  wit  is  generally  observed  to  love  to  reside  in 
empty  pockets,  so  the  gentleman  whose  ingenuity 
we  have  above  remarked,  as  soon  as  he  had  parted 
with  his  money,  began  to  grow  wonderfully  facetious. 
He  made  frequent  allusions  to  Adam  and  Eve,  and 
said  many  excellent  things  on  figs  and  fig-leaves; 
which  perhaps  gave  more  offence  to  Joseph  than  to 
any  other  in  the  company. 

The  lawyer  likewise  made  several  very  pretty  jests 
without  departing  from  his  profession.  He  said, 
"  If  Joseph  and  the  lady  were  alone,  he  would  be 
more  capable  of  making  a  conveyance  to  her,  as  his 
affairs  were  not  fettered  with  any  incumbrance  ;  he'd 
warrant  he  soon  suffered  a  recovery  by  a  writ  of 
entry,  which  was  the  proper  way  to  create  heirs  in 
tail ;  that,  for  his  own  part,  he  would  engage  to  make 
so  firm  a  settlement  in  a  coach,  that  there  should  be 
no  danger  of  an  ejectment,""  with  an  inundation  of 
the  like  gibberish,  which  he  continued  to  vent  till 
the  coach  arrived  at  an  inn,  where  one  servant-maid 
only  was  up,  in  readiness  to  attend  the  coachman, 
and  furnish  him  with  cold  meat  and  a  dram.  Joseph 
desired  to  alight,  and  that  he  might  have  a  bed  pre- 
pared for  him,  which  the  maid  readily  promised  to 
perform  ;  and,  being  a  good-natured  wench,  and  not 
so  squeamish  as  the  lady  had  been,  she  clapt  a  large 

[63] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

fagot  on  the  fire,  and,  furnishing  Joseph  with  a  great- 
coat belonging  to  one  of  the  hostlers,  desired  him  to 
sit  down  and  warm  himself  whilst  she  made  his  bed. 
The  coachman,  in  the  meantime,  took  an  opportunity 
to  call  up  a  surgeon,  who  lived  within  a  few  doors ; 
after  which,  he  reminded  his  passengers  how  late 
they  were,  and,  after  they  had  taken  leave  of  Joseph, 
hurried  them  off  as  fast  as  he  could. 

The  wench  soon  got  Joseph  to  bed,  and  promised 
to  use  her  interest  to  borrow  him  a  shirt ;  but  imag- 
ining, as  she  afterwards  said,  by  his  being  so  bloody, 
that  he  must  be  a  dead  man,  she  ran  with  all  speed 
to  hasten  the  surgeon,  who  was  more  than  half  drest, 
apprehending  that  the  coach  had  been  overturned, 
and  some  gentleman  or  lady  hurt.  As  soon  as  the 
wench  had  informed  him  at  his  window  that  it  was  a 
poor  foot-passenger  who  had  been  stripped  of  all  he 
had,  and  almost  murdered,  he  chid  her  for  disturbing 
him  so  early,  slipped  off'  his  clothes  again,  and  very 
quietly  returned  to  bed  and  to  sleep. 

Aurora  now  began  to  shew  her  blooming  cheeks 
over  the  hills,  whilst  ten  millions  of  feathered  song- 
sters, in  jocund  chorus,  repeated  odes  a  thousand 
times  sweeter  than  those  of  our  laureat,  and  sung 
both  the  day  and  the  song  ;  when  the  master  of  the 
inn,  Mr.  Tow-wouse,  arose,  and  learning  from  his 
maid  an  account  of  the  robbery,  and  the  situation  of 
his  poor  naked  guest,  he  shook  his  head,  and  cried, 

[64] 


CHARITY    DENIED 

"  good-lack-a-day ! ""  and  then  ordered    the  girl    to 
carry  him  one  of  his  own  shirts. 

Mrs.  Tow-vvouse  was  just  awake,  and  had  stretched 
out  her  arms  in  vain  to  fold  her  departed  husband, 
when  the  maid  entered  the  room.  "  Who  \s  there  ? 
Betty  ? "  —  "  Yes,  madam."  —  "  Where  's  your  mas- 
ter ? ""  —  "  He 's  without,  madam  ;  he  hath  sent  me 
for  a  shirt  to  lend  a  poor  naked  man,  who  hath  been 
robbed  and  murdered."  —  "  Touch  one  if  you  dare, 
you  slut,"  said  Mrs.  Tow-wouse  :  "your  master  is  a 
pretty  sort  of  a  man,  to  take  in  naked  vagabonds, 
and  clothe  them  with  his  own  clothes.  I  shall  have 
no  such  doings.  If  you  offer  to  touch  anything,  I  '11 
throw  the  chamber-pot  at  your  head.  Go,  send  your 
master  to  me."  — "  Yes,  madam,"  answered  Betty. 
As  soon  as  he  came  in,  she  thus  began  :  "  What  the 
devil  do  you  mean  by  this,  Mr.  Tow-vvouse  ?  Am  I  to 
buy  shirts  to  lend  to  a  set  of  scabby  rascals  ?  "  —  "  My 
dear,"  said  Mr.  Tow-wouse,  "  this  is  a  poor  wretch." 
—  "  Yes,"  says  she,  "  I  know  it  is  a  poor  wretch  ; 
but  what  the  devil  have  we  to  do  with  poor 
wretches  ?  The  law  makes  us  provide  for  too  many 
already.  We  shall  have  thirty  or  forty  poor  wretches 
in  red  coats  shortly."  —  "  My  dear,"  cries  Tow^-wouse, 
"  this  man  hath  been  robbed  of  all  he  hath."  — 
"  Well  then,"  said  she,  "  where 's  his  money  to  pay 
his  reckoning  ?  Why  doth  not  such  a  fellow  go  to 
an  alehouse  ?  I  shall  send  him  packing  as  soon  as  I 
VOL.  I.  —  6  [  65  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

am  up,  I  assure  you."  —  "  My  dear,"  said  he,  "  com- 
mon charity  won^t  suffer  you  to  do  that."  —  "  Com- 
mon charity,  a  f — t!"  says  she,  "common  charity 
teaches  us  to  provide  for  ourselves  and  our  famihes  ; 
and  I  and  mine  won't  be  ruined  by  your  charity,  I 
assure  you."  —  "  Well,"  says  he,  "  my  dear,  do  as  you 
will,  when  you  are  up ;  you  know  I  never  contradict 
you."  —  "  No,"  says  she ;  "  if  the  devil  was  to  con- 
tradict me,  I  would  make  the  house  too  hot  to  hold 
him." 

With  such  like  discourses  they  consumed  near  half- 
an-hour,  whilst  Betty  provided  a  shirt  from  the 
hostler,  who  was  one  of  her  sweethearts,  and  put  it 
on  poor  Joseph.  The  surgeon  had  likewise  at  last 
visited  him,  and  washed  and  drest  his  wounds,  and 
was  now  come  to  acquaint  Mr.  Tow-wouse  that  his 
guest  was  in  such  extreme  danger  of  his  life,  that  he 
scarce  saw  any  hopes  of  his  recovery.  *'  Here 's  a 
pretty  kettle  of  fish,"  cries  Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  "  you 
have  brought  upon  us !  We  are  like  to  have  a 
funeral  at  our  own  expense."  Tow-wouse  (who,  not- 
withstanding his  charity,  would  have  given  his  vote 
as  freely  as  ever  he  did  at  an  election,  that  any  other 
house  in  the  kingdom  should  have  quiet  possession  of 
his  guest)  answered,  "  My  dear,  I  am  not  to  blame  ; 
he  was  brought  hither  by  the  stage-coach,  and  Betty 
had  put  him  to  bed  before  I  was  stirring."  —  "I  '11 
Betty  her,"  says  she.  —  At  which,  with  half  her  gar- 

[66] 


THE    SURGEON'S    VISIT 

ments  on,  the  other  half  under  her  arm,  she  salHed 
out  in  quest  of  the  unfortunate  Betty,  whilst  Tow- 
wouse  and  the  surgeon  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  poor 
Joseph,  and  inquire  into  the  circumstances  of  this 
melancholy  affair. 


[67] 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  JOSEPH  DURING  HIS  SICKNESS  AT  THE 
INN,  WITH  THE  CURIOUS  DISCOURSE  BETWEEN  HIM 
AND  MR.  BARNABAS,  THE  PARSON  OF  THE  PARISH. 


]A  S  soon  as  Joseph  had  communicated  a  par- 
/^k         ticular  history  of  the  robbery,  together 

/  ^^  with  a  short  account  of  himself,  and  his 
"^  "^^  intended  journey,  he  asked  the  surgeon 
if  he  apprehended  him  to  be  in  any  danger :  to 
which  the  surgeon  very  honestly  answered,  "  He 
feared  he  was  ;  for  that  his  pulse  was  very  exalted 
and  feverish,  and,  if  his  fever  should  prove  more  than 
symptomatic,  it  would  be  impossible  to  save  him." 
Joseph,  fetching  a  deep  sigh,  cried,  "  Poor  Fanny,  I 
would  I  could  have  lived  to  see  thee !  but  God's  will 
be  done." 

The  surgeon  then  advised  him,  if  he  had  any 
worldly  affairs  to  settle,  that  he  would  do  it  as  soon 
as  possible ;  for,  though  he  hoped  he  might  recover, 
yet  he  thought  himself  obliged  to  acquaint  him  he 
was  in  great  danger  ;  and  if  the  malign  concoction 
of  his  humours  should  cause  a  suscitation  of  his  fever, 
he  might  soon  grow  delirious  and  incapable  to  maice 

[68] 


THE    CLERGYMAN'S    VISIT 

his  will.  Joseph  answered,  "  That  it  was  impossible 
for  any  creature  in  the  universe  to  be  in  a  poorer 
condition  than  himself;  for  since  the  robbery  he  had 
not  one  thing  of  any  kind  whatever  which  he  could 
call  his  own,''  "  I  had,"  said  he,  "  a  poor  little  piece 
of  gold,  which  they  took  away,  that  would  have  been 
a  comfort  to  me  in  all  my  afflictions  ;  but  surely, 
Fanny,  I  want  nothing  to  remind  me  of  thee.  I 
have  thy  dear  image  in  my  heart,  and  no  villain 
can  ever  tear  it  thence." 

Joseph  desired  paper  and  pens,  to  write  a  letter,  but 
they  were  refused  him  ;  and  he  was  advised  to  use  all 
his  endeavours  to  compose  himself  They  then  left 
him  ;  and  Mr.  Tow-wouse  sent  to  a  clergyman  to 
come  and  administer  his  good  offices  to  the  soul  of 
poor  Joseph,  since  the  surgeon  despaired  of  making 
any  successful  applications  to  his  body. 

Mr.  Barnabas  (for  that  was  the  clergyman's  name) 
came  as  soon  as  sent  for  ;  and,  having  first  drank  a 
dish  of  tea  with  the  landlady,  and  afterwards  a  bowl 
of  punch  with  the  landlord,  he  walked  up  to  the 
room  where  Joseph  lay  ;  but,  finding  him  asleep, 
returned  to  take  the  otlier  sneaker  ;  which  when  he 
had  finished,  he  again  crept  softly  up  to  the  chamber- 
door,  and,  having  opened  it,  heard  the  sick  man  talk- 
ing to  himself  in  the  following  manner  :  — 

"  O  most  adorable  Pamela  !  most  virtuous  sister  ! 
whose  example  could  alone  enable  me  to  withstand 

[69] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

all  the  temptations  of  riches  and  beauty,  and  to  pre- 
serve  my   virtue   pure  and  chaste    for  the   arms   of 
my  dear  Fanny,  if  it  had  pleased    Heaven    that    I 
should  ever  have  come  unto  them.      What  riches,  or 
honours,  or  pleasures,  can  make  us  amends   for  the 
loss  of  innocence?     Doth  not  that  alone   afford  us 
more    consolation    than    all    worldly    acquisitions  ? 
What  but  innocence  and  virtue  could  give  any  com- 
fort to  such  a  miserable  wretch  as  I  am  ?     Yet  these 
can    make  me  prefer  this  sick  and  painful  bed  to 
all  the  pleasures  I  should  have  found  in  my  lady's. 
These  can  make  me  face  death  without  fear ;  and 
though  I  love  my  Fanny  more  than  ever  man  loved 
a  woman,  these  can  teach  me  to  resign  myself  to  the 
Divine  will    without   repining.     O    thou    delightful 
charming  creature  !  if  Heaven  had  indulged  thee  to 
my  arms,  the   poorest,  humblest    state  would  have 
been  a  paradise;  I  could  have  lived  with   thee    in 
the  lowest  cottage  without  envying  the  palaces,  the 
dainties,  or  the  riches  of  any  man  breathing.     But  I 
must  leave    thee,  leave  thee  for  ever,  my    dearest 
angel !     I    must    think    of    another    world ;    and    I 
heartily  pray  thou  may''st  meet  comfort  in  this."  — 
Barnabas  thought  he  had  heard  enough,  so  down- 
stairs he  went,  and  told  Tow-wouse  he  could  do  his 
guest  no  service ;  for  that  he  was  very  light-headed, 
and  had  uttered  nothing  but  a  rhapsody  of  nonsense 
all  the  time  he  stayed  in  the  room. 

[70] 


PREPARATION    FOR    DEATH 

The  surgeon  returned  in  the  afternoon,  and  found 
his  patient  in  a  higher  fever,  as  he  said,  than  when 
he  left  him,  though  not  dehrious  ;  for,  notwithstand- 
ing Mr.  Barnabas's  opinion,  he  had  not  been  once 
out  of  his  senses  since  his  arrival  at  the  inn. 

Mr.  Barnabas  was  again  sent  for,  and  with  much 
difficulty  prevailed  on  to  make  another  visit.  As 
soon  as  he  entered  the  room  he  told  Joseph  "  He 
was  come  to  pray  by  him,  and  to  prepare  him  for  an- 
other world  :  in  the  first  place,  therefore,  he  hoped 
he  had  repented  of  all  his  sins."  Joseph  answered, 
"  He  hoped  he  had  ;  but  there  was  one  thing  which 
he  knew  not  whether  he  should  call  a  sin  ;  if  it  was, 
he  feared  he  should  die  in  the  commission  of  it ;  and 
that  was,  the  regret  of  parting  with  a  young  woman 
whom  he  loved  as  tenderly  as  he  did  his  heart- 
strings." Barnabas  bad  him  be  assured  "  that  any 
repining  at  the  Divine  will  was  one  of  the  greatest 
sins  he  could  commit ;  that  he  ought  to  forget  all 
carnal  affections,  and  think  of  better  things."  Joseph 
said,  "  Tliat  neither  in  this  world  nor  the  next  he 
could  forget  his  Fanny ;  and  that  the  thought,  how- 
ever grievous,  of  parting  from  her  for  ever,  was  not 
half  so  tormenting  as  the  fear  of  what  she  would 
suffer  when  she  knew  his  misfortune."  Barnabas 
said, "  That  such  fears  argued  a  diffidence  and  despon- 
dence very  criminal ;  that  he  must  divest  himself  of 
all  human  passions,  and  fix  his  heart  above."    Joseph 

[71] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

answered,  "  That  was  what  he  desired  to  do,  and 
should  be  obhged  to  him  if  he  would  enable  him  to 
accomplish  it.'"'  Barnabas  replied,  "  That  must  be 
done  by  grace."  Joseph  besought  him  to  discover 
how  he  might  attain  it.  Barnabas  answered,  "By 
prayer  and  faith."  He  then  questioned  him  concern- 
ing his  forgiveness  of  the  thieves.  Joseph  answered, 
"  He  feared  that  was  more  than  he  could  do ;  for 
nothing  would  give  him  more  pleasure  than  to  hear 
they  were  taken.""  —  "  That,"'"'  cries  Barnabas,  "  is  for 
the  sake  of  justice."""  —  "  Yes,""  said  Joseph,  "  but  if 
I  was  to  meet  them  again,  I  am  afraid  I  should 
attack  them,  and  kill  them  too,  if  I  could."'"'  — 
"  Doubtless,""  answered  Barnabas,  "  it  is  lawful  to  kill 
a  thief;  but  can  you  say  you  forgive  them  as  a  Chris- 
tian ought  ? ""  Joseph  desired  to  know  what  that 
forgiveness  was.  "That  is,""  answered  Barnabas,  "  to 
for<;ive  them  as  — as  —  it  is  to  forgive  them  as  —  i 


'& 


in 


short,  it  is  to  forgive  them  as  a  Christian."'"'  —  Joseph 
replied,  "  He  forgave  them  as  much  as  he  could."'"'  — 
"Well,  well,"  said  Barnabas,  "that  will  do."  He 
then  demanded  of  him,  "  If  he  remembered  any  more 
sins  unrepented  of;  and  if  he  did,  he  desired  him  to 
make  haste  and  repent  of  them  as  fast  as  he  could, 
that  they  might  repeat  over  a  few  prayers  together."" 
Joseph  answered,  "  He  could  not  recollect  any  great 
crimes  he  had  been  guilty  of,  and  that  those  he  had 
committed  he  was  sincerely  sorry  for."'"'    Barnabas  said 

[72] 


BETTY'S    KINDNESS 

that  was  enough,  and  then  proceeded  to  prayer  with 
all  the  expedition  he  was  master  of,  some  company 
then  waiting  for  him  below  in  the  parlour,  where  the 
ingredients  for  punch  were  all  in  readiness  ;  but  no 
one  would  squeeze  the  oranges  till  he  came. 

Joseph  complained  he  was  dry,  and  desired  a  little 
tea;  which  Barnabas  reported  to  Mrs.  Tow-wouse, 
who  answered,  "  She  had  just  done  drinking  it,  and 
could  not  be  slopping  all  day  ; "  but  ordered  Betty  to 
carry  him  up  some  small  beer. 

Betty  obeyed  her  mistress's  commands ;  but  Joseph, 
as  soon  as  he  had  tasted  it,  said,  he  feared  it  would  in- 
crease his  fever,  and  that  he  longed  very  much  for 
tea  ;  to  which  the  good-natured  Betty  answered,  he 
should  have  tea,  if  there  was  any  in  the  land ;  she 
accordingly  went  and  bought  him  some  herself,  and 
attended  him  with  it ;  where  we  will  leave  her  and 
Joseph  together  for  some  time,  to  entertain  the 
reader   with   other    matters. 


[73] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

BEING    VEKY    FULL    OF     ADVENTURES     WHICH     SUCCEEDED 
EACH    OTHER    AT   THE    INN. 

IT  was  now  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  when  a  grave 
person  rode  into  the  inn,  and,  committing  his 
horse  to  the  hostler,  went  directly  into  the 
kitchen,  and,  having  called  for  a  pipe  of  tobacco, 
took  his  place  by  the  fireside,  where  several  other  per- 
sons were  likewise  assembled. 

The  discourse  ran  altogether  on  the  robbery  which 
was  connnitted  the  night  before,  and  on  the  poor 
wretch  who  lay  above  in  the  dreadful  condition  in 
which  we  have  already  seen  him.  Mrs.  Tow-wouse 
said,  "  She  wondered  what  the  devil  Tom  Whipwell 
meant  by  bringing  such  guests  to  her  house,  when 
there  were  so  many  alehouses  on  the  road  proper  for 
their  reception.  But  she  assured  him,  if  he  died,  the 
parish  should  be  at  the  expense  of  the  funeral."  She 
added,  "  Nothing  would  serve  the  fellow's  turn  but 
tea,  she  would  assure  him."  Betty,  who  was  just 
returned  from  her  charitable  ofllce,  answered,  she 
believed  he  was  a  gentleman,  for  she  never  saw  a  finer 

[74] 


MRS.    TOW-WOUSE 

skin  in  her  life,  "  Pox  on  his  kin  !  "  repHed  Mrs. 
Tow-wouse,  "  I  suppose  that  is  all  we  are  like  to  have 
for  the  reckoning.  I  desire  no  such  gentlemen  should 
ever  call  at  the  Dragon ""  (which  it  seems  was  the 
sign    of  the  inn). 

The  gentleman  lately  arrived  discovered  a  great 
deal  of  emotion  at  the  distress  of  this  poor  creature, 
whom  he  observed  to  be  fallen  not  into  the  most 
compassionate  hands.  And  indeed,  if  Mrs.  Tow-wouse 
had  given  no  utterance  to  the  sweetness  of  her  temper, 
nature  had  taken  such  pains  in  her  countenance,  that 
Hogarth  himself  never  gave  more  expression  to  a 
picture. 

Her  person  was  shoii,  thin,  and  crooked.  Her 
forehead  projected  in  the  middle,  and  thence  de- 
scended in  a  declivity  to  the  top  of  her  nose,  which 
was  sharp  and  red,  and  would  have  hung  over  her 
lips,  had  not  nature  turned  up  the  end  of  it.  Her 
lips  were  two  bits  of  skin,  which,  whenever  she  spoke, 
she  drew  together  in  a  purse.  Her  chin  was  peaked  ; 
and  at  the  upper  end  of  that  skin  which  composed 
her  cheeks,  stood  two  bones,  that  almost  hid  a  pair 
of  small  red  eyes.  Add  to  this  a  voice  most  wonder- 
fully adapted  to  the  sentiments  it  was  to  convey,  be- 
ing both  loud  and  hoarse. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  whether  the  gentleman  had 
conceived  a  greater  dislike  for  his  landlady  or  com- 
passion for  her  unhappy  guest.     He  inquired  very 

[75] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

earnestly  of  the  surgeon,  who  was  now  come  into  the 
kitchen,  whether  he  had  any  hopes  of  his  recovery  ? 
He  begged  him  to  use  all  possible  means  towards  it, 
telling  him, "  it  was  the  duty  of  men  of  all  professions 
to  apply  their  skill  gratis  for  the  relief  of  the  poor 
and  necessitous."  The  surgeon  answered,  "  He  should 
take  proper  care ;  but  he  defied  all  the  surgeons 
in  London  to  do  him  any  good.'*'  — "  Pray,  sir," 
said  the  gentleman,  "what  are  his  wounds?"  — 
"  Why,  do  you  know  anything  of  wounds  ? "  says 
the  surgeon  (winking  upon  Mrs.  Tow-wouse).  — 
"  Sir,  I  have  a  small  smattering  in  surgery,"  answered 
the  gentleman.  —  "A  smattering  —  ho,  ho,  ho  !  " 
said  the  surgeon  ;  "  I  believe  it  is  a  smattering 
indeed." 

The  company  were  all  attentive,  expecting  to  hear 
the  doctor,  who  was  what  they  call  a  dry  fellow, 
expose  the  gentleman. 

He  began  therefore  with  an  air  of  triumph :  "  I 
suppose,  sir,  you  have  travelled  ?  "  —  "  No,  really, 
sir,"  said  the  gentleman.  —  "  Ho  !  then  you  have 
practised  in  the  hospitals  perhaps  ?  "  —  "  No,  sir." 
—  "  Hum  !  not  that  neither  ?  Whence,  sir,  then, 
if  I  may  be  so  bold  to  incpiire,  have  you  got  your 
knowledge  in  surgery  ? "  — "  Sir,"  answered  the 
gentleman,  "  I  do  not  pretend  to  much ;  but  the 
little  I  know  I  have  from  books."  —  "  Books  !  "  cries 
the  doctor.     "  What,  I  suppose  you  have  read  Galen 

[76] 


A    DISPLAY    OF    LEARNING 

and  Hippocrates  !  "  —  "  No,  sir,""  said  the  gentleman. 
— "  How !  you  understand  surgery,"  answers  the 
doctor,  "  and  not  read  Galen  and  Hippocrates  ? "  — 
"  Sir,"  cries  the  other,  "  I  believe  there  are  many 
surgeons  who  have  never  read  these  authors."  —  "I 
believe  so  too,"  says  the  doctor,  "  more  shame  for 
them ;  but,  thanks  to  my  education,  I  have  them  by 
heart,  and  very  seldom  go  without  them  both  in  my 
pocket."  —  "  i'hey  are  pretty  large  books,"  said  the 
gentleman.  —  "  Aye,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  believe  I 
know  how  large  they  are  better  than  you."  (At 
which  he  fell  a  winking,  and  the  whole  company 
burst  into  a  laugh.) 

The  doctor  pursuing  his  triumph,  asked  the 
gentleman,  "  If  he  did  not  understand  physic  as  well 
as  surgery."  "  Rather  better,"  answered  the  gentle- 
man. —  "  Aye,  like  enough,"  cries  the  doctor,  with 
a  wink.  "  Why,  I  know  a  little  of  physic  too."  — 
"  I  wish  I  knew  half  so  much,"  said  Tow-wouse,  "  I  'd 
never  Avear  an  apron  again." — "Why,  I  believe, 
landlord,"  cries  the  doctor,  "there  are  few  men, 
though  I  say  it,  within  twelve  miles  of  the  place, 
that  handle  a  fever  better.  Veniente  accurrite  morbo  : 
that  is  my  method.  I  suppose,  brother,  you  under- 
stand Latin  ?"  —  "  A  little,"  says  the  gentleman.  — 
"  Aye  and  Greek  now,  I  '11  warrant  you  :  Ton  da- 
pomihominos  polujlosboio  Thalasses.  But  I  have 
almost   forgot  these  things :  I  could  have  repeated 

[77] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Homer  by  heart  once." "  Ifags  !  the  gentleman 

has  caught  a  trajtor,"    says  Mrs.    Tow-wouse ;    at 
which  they  all  fell  a  laughing. 

Ilie  gentleman,  who  had  not  the  least  affection 
for  joking,  very  contentedly  suffered  the  doctor  to 
enjoy  his  victory,  which  he  did  with  no  small  satis- 
faction ;  and,  having  sufficiently  sounded  his  depth, 
told  him,  "  He  was  thoroughly  convinced  of  his 
great  learning  and  abilities ;  and  that  he  would  be 
obliged  to  him  if  he  would  let  him  know  his  opinion 
of  his  patient's  case  above-stairs."  —  "  Sir,"  says  the 
doctor,  "  his  case  is  that  of  a  dead  man  —  the  con- 
tusion on  his  head  has  perforated  the  internal  mem- 
brane of  the  occiput,  and  divelicated  that  radical 
small  minute  invisible  nerve  which  coheres  to  the 
pericranium ;  and  this  was  attended  with  a  fever 
at  first  symptomatic,  then  pneumatic ;  and  he  is  at 
length  grown  deliriuus,  or  delirious,  as  the  vulgar 
express  it." 

He  was  proceeding  in  this  learned  manner,  when 
a  mighty  noise  interrupted  him.  Some  young 
fellows  in  the  neighbourhood  had  taken  one  of  the 
thieves,  and  were  bringing  him  into  the  inn.  Betty 
ran  upstairs  with  this  news  to  Joseph,  who  begged 
they  might  search  for  a  little  piece  of  broken  gold, 
which  had  a  ribband  tied  to  it,  and  which  he  could 
swear  to  amongst  all  the  hoards  of  the  richest  men 
in  the  universe. 

[78] 


MR.    ADAMS    ARRIVES 

Notwithstanding  the  fellow's  persisting  in  his  in- 
nocence, the  mob  were  very  busy  in  searching  him, 
and  presently,  among  other  things,  pulled  out  the 
piece  of  gold  just  mentioned  ;  which  Betty  no  sooner 
saw  than  she  laid  violent  hands  on  it,  and  conveyed 
it  up  to  Joseph,  who  received  it  with  raptures  of  joy, 
and,  hucrsinff  it  in  his  bosom,  declared  he  could  now 
die  contented. 

Within  a  few  minutes  afterwards  came  in  some 
other  fellows,  with  a  bundle  which  they  had  found 
in  a  ditch,  and  which  was  indeed  the  cloaths  which 
had  been  stripped  off  from  Joseph,  and  the  other 
things  they  had  taken  from  him. 

The  irentleman  no  sooner  saw  the  coat  than  he 
declared  he  knew  the  livery  ;  and,  if  it  had  been 
taken  from  the  poor  creature  above-stairs,  desired 
he  might  see  him  ;  for  that  he  was  very  w  ell  acquainted 
with  the  family  to  whom  that  livery  belonged. 

He  was  accordingly  conducted  up  by  Betty ;  but 
what,  reader,  was  the  surprize  on  both  sides,  when 
he  saw  Joseph  was  the  person  in  bed,  and  when 
Joseph  discovered  the  face  of  his  good  friend  Mr. 
Abraham  Adams  ! 

It  would  be  impertinent  to  insert  a  discourse 
which  chiefly  turned  on  the  relation  of  matters 
already  well  known  to  the  reader ;  for,  as  soon  as  the 
curate  had  satisfied  Joseph  concerning  the  perfect 
health  of  his  Fanny,  he  was  on  his  side  very  inquisi- 

[79] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

tive    into  all    the    particulars    which  had    produced 
this  unfortunate  accident. 

To  return  therefore  to  the  kitchen,  where  a  great 
variety  of  coni{)any  were  now  assembled  from  all  the 
rooms  of  the  house,  as  well  as  the  neighbourhood  : 
so  much  deliglit  do  men  take  in  contemplating  the 
countenance  of  a  thief. 

Mr.  Tow-wouse  began  to  rub  his  hands  with 
pleasure  at  seeing  so  large  an  assembly  ;  who  would, 
he  hoped,  shortly  adjourn  into  several  ajiartments, 
in  order  to  discourse  over  tlie  robbery,  and  drink  a 
health  to  all  honest  men.  But  Mrs.  Tow-wouse, 
whose  misfortune  it  was  commonlv  to  see  things  a 
little  perversely,  began  to  rail  at  those  who  brought 
the  fellow  into  her  house;  telling  her  husband, 
"They  were  very  likely  to  thrive  who  kept  a  house 
of  entertainment  for  beggars  and  thieves." 

The  mob  had  now  finished  their  search,  and  could 
find  nothing  about  the  captive  likely  to  prove  any 
evidence ;  for  as  to  the  cloaths,  though  the  mob  were 
very  well  satisfied  with  that  proof,  yet,  as  the  sur- 
geon observed,  they  could  not  convict  him,  because 
they  were  not  found  in  his  custody ;  to  which  Barna- 
bas agreed,  and  added  that  these  were  bona  waviatn, 
and  belonged  to  the  lord  of  the  manor. 

"  How,"  says  the  surgeon,  "do  you  say  these 
goods  belong  to  the  lord  of  the  manor  ? "  —  "I  do," 
cried  Barnabas.  — "  Then  I  deny  it,"  says  the  sur- 

[80] 


EVIDENCE    OF    GUILT 

geon  :  "  what  can  the  lord  of  the  manor  have  to  do 
in  the  case  ?  Will  any  one  attempt  to  persuade  me 
that  what  a  man  finds  is  not  his  own  ?  "  —  "I  have 
heard,"  says  an  old  fellow  in  the  corner,  "justice 
Wise-one  say,  that,  if  every  man  had  his  right,  what- 
ever is  found  belongs  to  the  king  of  London/"*  — 
"  That  may  be  true,"  says  Barnabas,  '*  in  some  sense ; 
for  the  law  makes  a  difference  between  things  stolen 
and  things  found ;  for  a  thing  may  be  stolen  that 
never  is  found,  and  a  thing  may  be  found  that  never 
was  stolen  :  Now,  goods  that  are  both  stolen  and 
found  are  xvav'iata ;  and  they  belong  to  the  lord  of  the 
manor."  —  "  So  the  lord  of  the  manor  is  the  receiver 
of  stolen  goods,"  says  the  doctor  ;  at  which  there  was 
an  universal  laugh,  being  first  begun  by  himself. 

While  the  prisoner,  by  persisting  in  his  innocence, 
had  almost  (as  there  was  no  evidence  against  him) 
brought  over  Barnabas,  the  surgeon,  Tow-wouse,  and 
several  others  to  his  side,  Betty  informed  them  that 
they  had  overlooked  a  little  piece  of  gold,  which  she 
had  carried  up  to  the  man  in  bed,  and  which  he  offered 
to  swear  to  amongst  a  million,  aye,  amongst  ten 
thousand.  This  immediately  turned  the  scale  against 
the  prisoner,  and  every  one  now  concluded  him 
guilty.  It  was  resolved,  therefore,  to  keep  him  se- 
cured that  night,  and  early  in  the  morning  to  carry 
him  before  a  justice. 


VOL.  I. 


[81] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

SHOWING  HOW  MRS.  TOW-WOUSE  WAS  A  LITTLE  MOLLI- 
FIED ;  AND  HOW  OFFICIOUS  MR.  BARNAHAS  AND 
THE  SURGEON  WERE  TO  PROSECUTE  THE  THIEF: 
WITH  A  DISSERTATION  ACCOUNTING  FOR  THEIR 
ZEAL,  AND  THAT  OF  MANY  OTHER  PERSONS  NOT 
MENTIONED    IN    THIS    HISTORY. 

BETl'Y  told  her  mistress  she  believed  the 
man  in  bed  was  a  greater  man  than  they 
took  him  for ;  for,  besides  the  extreme 
whiteness  of  his  skin,  and  the  softness  of 
his  hands,  she  observed  a  very  great  famiharity  be- 
tween the  gentleman  and  him  ;  and  added,  she  was 
certain  they  were  intimate  acquaintance,  if  not 
relations. 

This  somewhat  abated  the  severity  of  Mrs.  Tow- 
wouse's  countenance.  She  said,  "  God  forbid  she 
should  not  discharge  the  duty  of  a  Christian,  since  the 
poor  gentleman  was  brought  to  her  house.  She  had 
a  natural  antipathy  to  vagabonds ;  but  could  pity  the 
misfortunes  of  a  Christian  as  soon  as  another." 
Tow-wouse  said,  "  If  the  traveller  be  a  gentleman, 
though  he  hath  no  money  about  him  now,  we  shall 

[82] 


THE    PIECE    OF    GOLD 

most  likely  be  pai«l  hereafter ;  so  you  may  begin  to 
score  whenever  you  will."  Mrs.  Tow-wouse  answered, 
"  Hold  your  simple  tongue,  and  don't  instruct  me  in 
my  business.  I  am  sure  I  am  sorry  for  the  gentle- 
man's misfortune  with  all  my  heart  ;  and  I  hope  the 
villain  who  hath  used  him  so  barbarously  will  be 
hanged.  Betty,  go  see  what  he  wants.  God  forbid 
he  should  want  anything  in  my  house." 

Barnabas  and  the  surgeon  went  up  to  Joseph  to 
satisfy  themselves  concerning  the  piece  of  gold ; 
Joseph  was  with  difficulty  prevailed  upon  to  show  it 
them,  but  would  by  no  entreaties  be  brought  to  de- 
liver it  out  of  his  own  possession.  He  however 
attested  this  to  be  the  same  which  had  been  taken 
from  him,  and  Betty  was  ready  to  swear  to  the  find- 
ing it  on  the  thief. 

The  only  difficulty  that  remained  was,  how  to  pro- 
duce this  gold  before  the  justice  ;  for  as  to  carrying 
Joseph  himself,  it  seemed  impossible  ;  nor  was  there 
any  great  likelihood  of  obtaining  it  from  him,  for 
he  had  fastened  it  with  a  ribband  to  his  arm,  and 
solemnly  vowed  that  nothing  but  irresistible  force 
should  ever  separate  them  ;  in  which  resolution,  Mr. 
Adams,  clenching  a  fist  rather  less  than  the  knuckle 
of  an  ox,  declared  he  would  support  him. 

A  dispute  arose  on  this  occasion  concerning  evi- 
dence not  very  necessary  to  be  related  here  ;  after 
which  the  surgeon  dressed  Mr.  Joseph's  head,  still 

[83  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

persisting  in  the  imminent  danger  in  which  his  patient 
lay,  but  conduding,  with  a  very  important  look, 
"  That  he  began  to  have  some  hopes ;  that  he  should 
send  him  a  sanative  soporiferous  draught,  and  would 
see  him  in  the  morning."  After  which  Barnabas 
and  he  departed,  and  left  Mr.  Joseph  and  Mr.  Adams 
together. 

Adams  informed  Joseph  of  the  occasion  of  this 
journey  which  he  was  making  to  London,  namely,  to 
publish  three  volumes  of  sermons  ;  being  encouraged, 
as  he  said,  by  an  advertisement  lately  set  forth  by  the 
society  of  booksellers,  who  proposed  to  purchase  any 
copies  offered  to  them,  at  a  price  to  be  settled  by  two 
persons ;  but  though  he  imagined  he  should  get  a 
considerable  sum  of  money  on  this  occasion,  which  his 
family  were  in  urgent  need  of,  he  protested  he  would 
not  leave  Joseph  in  his  present  condition  :  finally,  he 
told  him,  "  He  had  nine  shillings  and  threepence 
halfpenny  in  his  pocket,  which  he  was  welcome  to  use 
as  he  pleased."" 

This  goodness  of  parson  Adams  brought  tears  into 
Joseph"'s  eyes  ;  he  declared,  "  He  had  now  a  second 
reason  to  desire  life,  that  he  might  show  his  gratitude 
to  such  a  friend."  Adams  bad  him  "  be  cheerful ; 
for  that  he  plainly  saw  the  surgeon,  besides  his  igno- 
rance, desired  to  make  a  merit  of  curing  him,  though 
the  wounds  in  his  head,  he  perceived,  were  by  no 
means  dangerous ;  that  he  was  convinced  he  had  no 

[84  1 


CONVALESCENCE 

fever,  and  doubted  not  but  he  would  be  able  to  travel 
in  a  day  or  two." 

These  words  infused  a  spirit  into  Joseph ;  he  said, 
"  He  found  himself  very  sore  from  the  bruises,  but 
had  no  reason  to  think  any  of  his  bones  injured,  or 
that  he  had  received  any  harm  in  his  inside,  unless 
that  he  felt  something  very  odd  in  his  stomach  ; 
but  he  knew  not  whether  that  might  not  arise  from 
not  having  eaten  one  morsel  for  above  twenty-four 
hours.'"'  Being  then  asked  if  he  had  any  inclination 
to  eat,  he  answered  in  the  affirmative.  Then  parson 
Adams  desired  him  to  "name  what  he  had  the 
greatest  fancy  for ;  whether  a  poached  egg,  or 
chicken-broth."  He  answered,  "  He  could  eat  both 
very  well ;  but  that  he  seemed  to  have  the  greatest 
appetite  for  a  piece  of  boiled  beef  and  cabbage." 

Adams  was  pleased  with  so  perfect  a  confirmation 
that  he  had  not  the  least  fever,  but  advised  him  to 
a  lighter  diet  for  that  evening.  He  accordingly  ate 
either  a  rabbit  or  a  fowl,  I  never  could  with  any 
tolerable  certainty  discover  which  ;  after  this  he  was, 
by  Mrs.  Tow-wouse"'s  order,  conveyed  into  a  better 
bed  and  equipped  with  one  of  her  husband's  shirts. 

In  the  morning  early,  Barnabas  and  the  surgeon 
came  to  the  inn,  in  order  to  see  the  thief  conveyed 
before  the  justice.  They  had  consumed  the  whole 
night  in  debating  what  measures  they  should  take  to 
produce  the  piece  of  gold  in  evidence  against  him  ; 

[85  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

for  they  were  both  extremely  zealous  in  the  business, 
though  neither  of  them  were  in  the  least  interested 
in  the  prosecution  ;  neither  of  them  had  ever  re- 
ceived any  private  injury  from  the  fellow,  nor  had 
either  of  them  ever  been  suspected  of  loving  the 
publick  well  enough  to  give  them  a  sermon  or  a  dose 
of  physic  for  nothing. 

To  help  our  reader,  therefore,  as  much  as  possible 
to  account  for  this  zeal,  we  must  inform  him  that,  as 
this  parish  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  no  lawyer 
in  it,  there  had  been  a  constant  contention  between 
the  two  doctors,  spiritual  and  physical,  concerning 
their  abilities  in  a  science,  in  which,  as  neither  of  them 
professed  it,  they  had  equal  pretensions  to  dispute 
each  other's  opinions.  These  disputes  were  carried 
on  with  great  contempt  on  both  sides,  and  had  al- 
most divided  the  parish  ;  Mr.  Tow-wouse  and  one 
half  of  the  neighbours  inclining  to  the  surgeon,  and 
Mrs.  Tow-wouse  with  the  other  half  to  the  parson. 
The  surgeon  drew  his  knowledge  from  those  inestim- 
able fountains,  called  The  Attorney's  Pocket  Com- 
panion, and  Mr.  Jacob's  Law-Tables ;  Barnabas 
trusted  entirely  to  Wood's  Institutes.-  It  happened 
on  this  occasion,  as  was  pretty  frequently  the  case, 
that  these  two  learned  men  differed  about  the  suffi- 
ciency of  evidence ;  the  doctor  being  of  opinion  that 
the  maid's  oath  would  convict  the  prisoner  without 
producing  the  gold  ;  the  parson,  e  contra^  totis  viri- 

[86] 


VANITY 

bus.  To  display  their  parts,  therefore,  before  the 
justice  and  the  parish,  was  the  sole  motive  which  we 
can  discover  to  this  zeal  which  both  of  them  pretended 
to  have  for  publick  justice. 

O  Vanity !  how  little  is  thy  force  acknowledged,  or 
thy  operations  discerned  !  How  wantonly  dost  thou 
deceive  mankind  under  different  disguises  !  Some- 
times thou  dost  wear  the  face  of  pity,  sometimes  of 
generosity  :  nay,  thou  hast  the  assurance  even  to  put 
on  those  glorious  ornaments  which  belong  only  to 
heroic  virtue.  Thou  odious,  deformed  monster ! 
whom  priests  have  railed  at,  philosophers  despised, 
and  poets  ridiculed  ;  is  there  a  wretch  so  abandoned 
as  to  own  thee  for  an  acquaintance  in  publick  ?  —  yet, 
how  few  will  refuse  to  enjoy  thee  in  private?  nay, 
thou  art  the  pursuit  of  most  men  through  their  lives. 
The  greatest  villainies  are  daily  practised  to  please 
thee ;  nor  is  the  meanest  thief  below,  or  the  greatest 
hero  above,  thy  notice.  Thy  embraces  are  often  the 
sole  aim  and  sole  reward  of  the  private  robbery  and 
the  plundered  province.  It  is  to  pamper  up  thee, 
thou  harlot,  that  we  attempt  to  withdraw  from 
others  what  we  do  not  want,  or  to  withhold  from 
them  what  they  do.  All  our  passions  are  thy  slaves. 
Avarice  itself  is  often  no  more  than  thy  handmaid, 
and  even  Lust  thy  pimp.  The  bully  Fear,  like  a 
coward,  flies  before  thee,  and  Joy  and  Grief  hide 
their  heads  in  thy  presence. 

[87] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

I  know  thou  wilt  think  that  whilst  I  abuse  thee 
I  court  thee,  and  that  thy  love  hath  inspired  me  to 
write  this  sarcastical  panegyric  on  thee ;  but  thou 
art  deceived  :  I  value  thee  not  of  a  farthing ;  nor 
will  it  give  me  any  pain  if  thou  shouldst  prevail  on 
the  reader  to  censure  this  digression  as  arrant  non- 
sense ;  for  know,  to  thy  confusion,  that  I  have  intro- 
duced thee  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  lengthen 
out  a  short  chapter,  and  so  I  return  to  my  history. 


[88] 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

THE  ESCAPE  OF  THE  THIEF,  MR.  ADAMs's  DISAPPOINT- 
MENT. THE  ABRIVAI,  OF  TWO  VERY  EXTRAORDI- 
NARY PERSONAGES,  AND  THE  INTRODUCTION  OF 
PARSON    ADAMS    TO    PARSON    BARNABAS. 

ARNABAS  and  the  surgeon,  being  re- 
turned, as  we  have  said,  to  the  inn,  in 
order  to  convey  the  thief  before  the  jus- 
tice, were  greatly  concerned  to  find  a 
small  accident  had  happened,  which  somewhat  dis- 
concerted them ;  and  this  was  no  other  than  the 
thie£s_escape,  who  had  modestly  withdrawn  him- 
self by  night,  declining  all  ostentation,  and  not 
chusing,  in  imitation  of  some  great  men,  to  dis- 
tinguish himself  at  the  expense  of  being  pointed  at. 

When  the  company  had  retired  the  evening  before, 
the  thief  was  detained  in  a  room  where  the  constable, 
and  one  of  the  young  fellows  who  took  him,  were 
planted  as  his  guard.  About  the  second  watch  a 
general  complaint  of  drought  was  made,  both  by  the 
prisoner  and  his  keepers.  Among  whom  it  w  as  at  last 
agreed  that  the  constable  should  remain  on  duty,  and 
the  young  fellow  call  up  the  tapster ;  in  which  dis- 

[89] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

position  the  latter  approliended  not  the  least  danger, 
as  the  constable  was  well  armed,  and  could  besides 
easily  summon  him  back  to  his  assistance,  if  the 
prisoner  made  the  least  attempt  to  gain  his  liberty. 

The  young  fellow  had  not  long  left  the  room  before 
it  came  into  the  constable's  head  that  the  prisoner 
might  leap  on  him  by  surprize,  and,  thereby  prevent- 
ing him  of  the  use  of  his  weapons,  especially  the  long 
staff  in  which  he  chiefly  confided,  might  reduce  the 
success  of  a  struggle  to  an  equal  chance.  He  wisely, 
therefore,  to  prevent  this  inconvenience,  slipt  out  of 
the  room  himself,  and  locked  the  door,  waiting  with- 
out with  his  staff  in  his  hand,  ready  lifted  to  fell  the 
unhappy  prisoner,  if  by  ill  fortune  he  should  attempt 
to  break  out. 

But  human  life,  as  hath  been  discovered  by  some 
great  man  or  other  (for  I  would  by  no  means  be  un- 
derstood to  affect  the  honour  of  making  any  such  dis- 
covery), very  much  resembles  a  game  at  chess ;  for  as 
in  the  latter,  while  a  gamester  is  too  attentive  to 
secure  himself  very  strongly  on  one  side  the  board, 
he  is  apt  to  leave  an  unguarded  opening  on  the  other ; 
so  doth  it  often  happen  in  life,  and  so  did  it  happen 
on  this  occasion  ;  for  whilst  the  cautious  constable 
with  such  wonderful  sagacity  had  possessed  himself 
of  the  door,  he  most  unhappily  forgot  the  window. 

The  thief,  who  played  on  the  other  side,  no  sooner 
perceived  this  opening  than  he  began  to  move  that 

[90] 


THE    THIEF'S    ESCxVPE 

way  ;  and,  finding  the  passage  easy,  he  took  with  him 
the  young  fellow's  hat,  and  without  any  ceremony 
stepped  into  the  street  and  made  the  best  of  his 
way. 

The  young  fellow,  returning  with  a  double  mug  of 
strong  beer,  was  a  little  surprized  to  find  the  con- 
stable at  the  door  ;  but  much  more  so  when,  the  door 
being  opened,  he  perceived  the  prisoner  had  made 
his  escape,  and  which  way.  He  threw  down  the  beer, 
and,  without  uttering  anything  to  the  constable 
except  a  hearty  curse  or  two,  he  nimbly  leapt  out  of 
the  window,  and  went  again  in  pursuit  of  his  prey, 
being  very  unwilling  to  lose  the  reward  which  he  had 
assured  himself  of. 

The  constable  hath  not  been  discharged  of  suspi- 
cion on  this  account ;  it  hath  been  said  that,  not 
being  concerned  in  the  taking  the  thief,  he  could 
not  have  been  entitled  to  any  part  of  the  reward  if 
he  had  been  convicted  ;  that  the  thief  had  several 
guineas  in  his  pocket ;  that  it  was  very  unlikely  he 
should  have  been  guilty  of  such  an  oversight ;  that 
his  pretence  for  leaving  the  room  was  absurd  ;  that 
it  was  his  constant  maxim,  that  a  wise  man  never 
refused  money  on  any  conditions  ;  that  at  every  elec- 
tion he  always  had  sold  his  vote  to  both  parties,  &c. 

But,  notwithstanding  these  and  many  other  such 
allegations,  I  am  sufficiently  convinced  of  his  inno- 
cence ;  having  been  positively  assured  of  it  by  those 

[  91  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

who  received  their  informations  from  his  own  mouth  ; 
which,  in  the  opinion  of  some  moderns,  is  the  best 
and  indeed  only  evidence. 

All  the  family  were  now  up,  and  with  many  others 
assembled  in  the  kitchen,  where  Mr.  Tow-wouse  was 
in  some  tribulation  ;  the  surgeon  having  declared 
that  by  law  he  was  liable  to  be  indicted  for  the 
thiefs  escape,  as  it  was  out  of  his  house ;  he  was  a 
little  comforted,  however,  by  Mr.  Barnabas's  opinion, 
that  as  the  escape  was  by  night  the  indictment  would 
not  lie. 

Mrs.  Tow-wouse  delivered  herself  in  the  following 
words  :  "  Sure  never  was  such  a  fool  as  my  husband  ; 
would  any  other  person  living  have  left  a  man  in  the 
custody  of  such  a  drunken  drowsy  blockhead  as  Tom 
Suckbribe  ? ""  (which  was  the  constable's  name) ;  "  and 
if  he  could  be  indicted  without  any  harm  to  his  wife 
and  children,  I  should  be  glad  of  it."  (Then  the 
bell  rung  in  Joseph's  room.)  "  Why  Betty,  John, 
Chamberlain,  where  the  devil  are  you  all  ?  Have  you 
no  ears,  or  no  conscience,  not  to  tend  the  sick  better  ? 
See  what  the  gentleman  wants.  Why  don't  you  go 
yourself,  Mr.  Tow-wouse  ?  But  any  one  may  die  for 
you ;  you  have  no  more  feeling  than  a  deal  board. 
If  a  man  lived  a  fortnight  in  your  house  without 
spending  a  penny,  you  would  never  put  him  in  mind 
of  it.  See  whether  he  drinks  tea  or  coffee  for  break- 
fast."    "  Yes,  my  dear,"  cried  Tow-wouse.     She  then 

[92] 


MR.    ADAMS'S    STRATAGEM 

asked  the  doctor  and  Mr.  Barnabas  what  morning's 
draught  they  chose,  who  answered,  they  had  a  pot  of 
cyder-and  at  the  fire ;  which  we  will  leave  them  merry 
over,  and  return  to  Joseph. 

He  had  rose  pretty  early  this  morning ;  but, 
though  his  wounds  were  far  from  threatening  any 
danger,  he  was  so  sore  with  the  bruises,  that  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  think  of  undertaking  a  journey 
yet ;  Mr.  Adams,  therefore,  whose  stock  was  visibly 
decreased  with  the  expenses  of  supper  and  breakfast, 
and  which  could  not  survive  that  day's  scoring, 
began  to  consider  how  it  was  possible  to  recruit  it. 
At  last  he  cried,  "  He  had  luckily  hit  on  a  sure 
method,  and,  though  it  would  oblige  him  to  return 
himself  home  together  with  Joseph,  it  mattered  not 
much."  He  then  sent  for  Tow-wouse,  and,  taking 
him  into  another  room,  told  him  "he  wanted  to 
bori'ow  three  guineas,  for  which  he  would  put  ample 
security  into  his  hands."  Tow-wouse,  who  expected 
a  watch,  or  ring,  or  something  of  double  the  value, 
answered,  "He  believed  he  could  furnish  him." 
Upon  which  Adams,  pointing  to  his  saddle-bag,  told 
him,  with  a  face  and  voice  full  of  solemnity,  "  that 
there  were  in  that  bag  no  less  than  nine  volumes  of 
manuscript  sermons,  as  well  worth  a  hundred  pounds 
as  a  shilling  was  worth  twelve  pence,  and  that  he 
would  deposit  one  of  the  volumes  in  his  hands  by  way 
of  pledge  ;  not  doubting  but  that  he  would  have  the 

[93] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

honesty  to  return  it  on  his  repayment  of  the  money  ; 
for  otherwise  he  must  be  a  very  great  loser,  seeing 
that  every  volume  would  at  least  bring  him  ten 
pounds,  as  he  had  been  informed  by  a  neighbouring 
clergyman  in  the  country ;  for,"  said  he,  "  as  to  my 
own  part,  having  never  yet  dealt  in  printing,  I  do 
not  pretend  to  ascertain  the  exact  value  of  such 
things," 

Tow-wouse,  who  was  a  little  surprized  at  the  pawn, 
said  ( and  not  without  some  truth  ),  "  That  he  was 
no  judge  of  the  price  of  such  kind  of  goods  ;  and  as 
for  money,  he  really  was  very  short."  Adams 
answered,  "  Certainly  he  would  not  scruple  to  lend 
him  three  guineas  on  what  was  undoubtedly  worth 
at  least  ten."  The  landlord  replied,  "  He  did  not 
believe  he  had  so  much  money  in  the  house,  and 
besides,  he  was  to  make  up  a  sum.  He  was  very 
confident  the  books  were  of  much  higher  value,  and 
heartily  sorry  it  did  not  suit  him."  He  then  cried 
out,  "  Coming  sir ! "  though  nobody  called ;  and 
ran  downstairs  without  any  fear  of  breaking  his 
neck. 

Poor  Adams  was  extremely  dejected  at  this  dis- 
appointment, nor  knew  he  what  further  stratagem 
to  try.  He  immediately  applied  to  his  pipe,  his 
constant  friend  and  comfort  in  his  afflictions ;  and, 
leaning  over  the  rails,  he  devoted  himself  to  medita- 
tion, assisted  by  the  inspiring  fumes  of  tobacco. 

[94] 


NEW    ARRIVALS 

He  had  on  a  niffhtcap  drawn  over  his  wig,  and  a 
short  greatcoat,  which  half  covered  his  cassock  —  a 
dress  which,  added  to  something  comical  enough  in 
his  countenance,  composed  a  figure  likely  to  attract 
the  eyes  of  those  who  were  not  over  given  to  obser- 
vation. 

Whilst  he  was  smoaking  his  pipe  in  this  posture, 
a  coach  and  six,  with  a  numerous  attendance,  drove 
into  the  inn.  There  alighted  from  the  coach  a 
young  fellow  and  a  brace  of  pointers,  after  which 
another  young  fellow  leapt  fi'om  the  box,  and  shook 
the  former  by  the  hand ;  and  both,  together  with 
the  dogs,  were  instantly  conducted  by  Mr.  Tow- 
wouse  into  an  apartment ;  whither  as  they  passed, 
they  entertained  themselves  with  the  following  short 
facetious  dialogue :  — 

"  You  are  a  pretty  fellow  for  a  coachman,  Jack  !  " 
says  he  from  the  coach  ;  "  you  had  almost  overturned 
us  just  now.""  —  "  Pox  take  you  !  "  says  the  coachman  ; 
"  if  I  had  only  broke  your  neck,  it  would  have  been 
saving  somebody  else  the  trouble  ;  but  I  should  have 
been  sorry  for  the  pointers."  —  "  Why,  you  son  of  a 
b — ,"  answered  the  other,  "if  nobody  could  shoot 
better  than  you,  the  pointers  would  be  of  no  use."  — 
"  D — n  me,"  says  the  coachman,  "  I  will  shoot  with 
you  five  guineas  a  shot."  —  "  You  be  hanged,"  says 
the  other;  "for  five  guineas  you  shall  shoot  at  my 
a — ."  —  "  Done,"  says  the  coachman  ;  "  I  '11  pepper 

[95] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

you  better  than  ever  you  was  peppered  by  Jenny 
Bouncer."  — "  Pepper  your  grandmother,""  says  the 
other :  "  Here  ""s  Tow-wouse  will  let  you  shoot  at 
him  for  a  shilling  a  time."  —  "I  know  his  honour 
better,"  cries  Tow-wouse ;  "  I  never  saw  a  surer 
shot  at  a  partridge.  Every  man  misses  now  and 
then ;  but  if  I  could  shoot  half  as  well  as  his 
honour,  I  would  desire  no  better  livelihood  than  I 
could  get  by  my  gun."  —  "Pox  on  you,"  said  the 
coachman,  "  you  demolish  more  game  now  than  your 
head 's  worth.  There 's  a  bitch,  Tow-wouse :  by 
G — she  never  blinked^  a  bird  in  her  life." — "I 
have  a  puppy,  not  a  year  old,  shall  hunt  with  her 
for  a  hundred,"  cries  the  other  gentleman.  —  "  Done," 
says  the  coachman  :  "but  you  will  be  pox'd  before 
you  make  the  bett."  —  "  If  you  have  a  mind  for  a 
bett,"  cries  the  coachman,  "  I  will  match  my  spotted 
dog  with  your  white  bitch  for  a  hundred,  play  or 
pay."  —  "  Done,"  says  the  other  :  "  and  I  '11  run 
Baldface  against  Slouch  with  you  for  another."  — 
"  No,"  cries  he  from  the  box ;  "  but  I  '11  venture  Miss 
Jenny  against  Baldface,  or  Hannibal  either."  —  "  Go 
to  the  devil,"  cries  he  from  the  coach :  "  I  will  make 
every  bett  your  own  way,  to  be  sure  !  I  will  match 
Hannibal  with  Slouch  for  a  thousand,  if  you  dare ; 
and  I  say  done  first." 

*  To  blink  is  a  term  used  to  signify  the  dog's  passing   by 
a  bird  without  pointing  at  it. 

[96] 


THE    TWO    CLERGYMEN 

They  were  now  amved  ;  and  the  reader  will  be 
very  contented  to  leave  them,  and  repair  to  the 
kitchen ;  where  Barnabas,  the  surgeon,  and  an  excise- 
man were  smoaking  their  pipes  over  some  cyder- 
and ;  and  where  the  servants,  who  attended  the  two 
noble  gentlemen  we  have  just  seen  alight,  were  now 
arrived. 

"  Tom,"  cries  one  of  the  footmen,  "  there's  parson 
Adams  smoaking  his  pipe  in  the  gallerv." — "Yes," 
says  Tom  ;  "  I  pulled  off  my  hat  to  him,  and  the 
parson  spoke  to  me." 

"  Is  the  gentleman  a  clergyman,  then  ? "  savs 
Barnabas  (  for  his  cassock  had  been  tied  up  when  he 
arrived  ).  "  Y'^es,  sir,"  answered  the  footman  ;  "  and 
one  there  be  but  few  like." —  "  Aye,"  said  Barnabas  ; 
"  if  I  had  known  it  sooner,  I  should  have  desired liis 
company  ;  I  would  always  shew  a  proper  respect  for 
the  cloth :  but  what  say  you,  doctor,  shall  we 
adjourn  into  a  room,  and  invite  him  to  take  part 
of  a  bowl    of  punch  } " 

This  proposal  was  immediately  agreed  to  and  exe- 
cuted ;  and  parson  Adams  accepting  the  invitation, 
much  civility  passed  between  the  two  clergymen,  who 
both  declared  the  great  honour  they  had  for  the 
cloth.  They  had  not  been  long  together  before  they 
entered  into  a  discourse  on  small  tithes,  which  con- 
tinued a  full  hour,  without  the  doctor  or  exciseman's 
having  one  opportunity  to  offer  a  word. 
TOL.I— 7  [97] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

It  was  then  proposed  to  begin  a  general  conversa- 
tion, and  the  exciseman  opened  on  foreign  affairs ; 
but  a  word  unluckily  dropping  from  one  of  them 
introduced  a  dissertation  on  the  hardships  suffered 
by  the  inferior  clergy  ;  which,  after  a  long  duration, 
concluded  with  bringing  the  nine  volumes  of  sermons 
on  the  carpet. 

Barnabas  greatly  discouraged  poor  Adams ;  he 
said,  "The  age  was  so  wicked,  that  nobody  read 
sermons  :  would  you  think  it,  Mr.  Adams  ?  "  said  he, 
"  I  once  intended  to  print  a  volume  of  sermons  my- 
self, and  they  had  the  approbation  of  two  or  three 
bishops ;  but  what  do  you  think  a  bookseller  offered 
me?"  —  "Twelve  guineas  perhaps,"  cried  Adams. 
— "  Not  twelve  pence,  I  assure  you,"  answered 
Barnabas  :  "  nay,  the  dog  refused  me  a  Concordance 
in  exchange.  At  last  I  offered  to  give  him  the 
printing  them,  for  the  sake  of  dedicating  them  to 
that  very  gentleman  who  just  now  drove  his  own 
coach  into  the  inn  ;  and,  I  assure  you,  he  had  the 
impudence  to  refuse  my  offer ;  by  which  means  I  lost 
a  good  living,  that  was  afterwards  given  away  in 
exchange  for  a  pointer,  to  one  who  —  but  I  will  not 
say  anything  against  the  cloth.  So  you  may  guess, 
Mr.  Adams,  what  you  are  to  expect ;  for  if  sermons 
would  have  gone  down,  I  believe  —  I  will  not  be 
vain  ;  but  to  be  concise  with  you,  three  bishops  said 
they  were  the  best  that  ever  were  writ :  but  indeed 

[98] 


VALUE    OF    SERMONS 

there  are  a  pretty  moderate  number  printed  already, 
and  not  all  sold  yet.""  —  "  Pray,  sir,"  said  Adams, 
"  to  what  do  you  think  the  numbers  may  amount  ?  " 
—  "  Sir,"  answered  Barnabas,  "  a  bookseller  told  me, 
he  believed  five  thousand  volumes  at  least."  —  "  Five 
thousand  ?  "  quoth  the  surgeon  :  "  What  can  they  be 
writ  upon  ?  I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  used 
to  read  one  Tillotson's  sermons  ;  and,  I  am  sure,  if 
a  man  practised  half  so  much  as  is  in  one  of  those 
sermons,  he  will  go  to  heaven."  —  "  Doctor,"  cried 
Barnabas,  "  you  have  a  prophane  way  of  talking,  for 
which  I  must  reprove  you.  A  man  can  never  have 
his  duty  too  frequently  inculcated  into  him.  And 
as  for  Tillotson,  to  be  sure  he  was  a  good  writer,  and 
said  things  very  well ;  but  comparisons  are  odious ; 

another  man  may  write  as  well  as  he I  believe 

there  are  some  of  my  sermons," and  then   he 

applied  the  candle  to  his  pipe.  —  "And  I  believe 
there  are  some  of  my  discourses,"  cries  Adams,  "  which 
the  bishops  would  not  think  totally  unworthy  of 
being  printed ;  and  I  have  been  informed  I  might 
procure  a  very  large  sum  (indeed  an  immense  one) 
on  them." — "I  doubt  that,"  answered  Barnabas: 
"however,  if  you  desire  to  make  some  money  of 
them,  perhaps  you  may  sell  them  by  advertising  the 
manuscript  sermons  of  a  clergyman  lately  deceased, 
all  warranted  originals,  and  never  printed.  And 
now  I  think  of  it,  I  should  be  obliged  to  you,  if 

[99] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

there  be  ever  a  funeral  one  among  them,  to  lend  it 
me  ;  for  I  am  this  very  day  to  preach  a  funeral 
sermon,  for  which  I  have  not  penned  a  line,  though 
I  am  to  have  a  double  price."  —  Adams  answered, 
"  He  had  but  one,  which  he  feared  would  not  serve 
his  purpose,  being  sacred  to  the  memory  of  a  magis- 
trate, who  had  exerted  himself  very  singularly  in  the 
preservation  of  the  morality  of  his  neighbours,  inso- 
much that  he  had  neither  alehouse  nor  lewd  woman 
in  the  parish  where  he  lived/'  —  "  No,"  replied  Barna- 
bas, "  that  will  not  do  quite  so  well ;  for  the  deceased, 
upon  whose  virtues  I  am  to  harangue,  was  a  little 
too  much  addicted  to  liquor,  and  publickly  kept  a 

mistress. 1  believe  I  must  take  a  common  sermon, 

and  trust  to  my  memory  to  introduce  something 
handsome  on  him."  —  "  To  your  invention  rather," 
said  the  doctor :  "  your  memory  will  be  apter  to  put 
you  out;  for  no  man  living  remembers  anything  good 
of  him." 

With  such  kind  of  spiritual  discourse,  they  emptied 
the  bowl  of  punch,  paid  their  reckoning,  and  sepa- 
rated :  Adams  and  the  doctor  went  up  to  Joseph, 
parson  Barnabas  departed  to  celebrate  the  aforesaid 
deceased,  and  the  exciseman  descended  into  the 
cellar  to  gauge  the  vessels. 

Joseph  was  now  ready  to  sit  down  to  a  loin  of 
mutton,  and  waited  for  Mr.  Adams,  when  he  and  the 
doctor  came  in.     The  doctor,  having  felt  his  pulse 

[100] 


JOSEPH'S    RECOVERY 

and  examined  his  wounds,  declared  him  much  better, 
which  he  imputed  to  that  sanative  soporiferous 
draught,  a  medicine  "  whose  virtues,'"  he  said,  "  were 
never  to  be  sufficiently  extolled."  And  great  indeed 
they  must  be,  if  Joseph  was  so  much  indebted  to 
them  as  the  doctor  imagined  ;  since  nothing  more 
than  those  effluvia  which  escaped  the  cork  could 
have  contributed  to  his  recovery  ;  for  the  medicine 
had  stood  untouched  in  the  window  ever  since  its 
aiTival. 

Joseph  passed  that  day,  and  the  three  following, 
with  his  friend  Adams,  in  which  nothing  so  remark- 
able happened  as  the  swift  progress  of  his  recovery. 
As  he  had  an  excellent  habit  of  body,  his  wounds 
were  now  almost  healed ;  and  his  bruises  gave  him  so 
little  uneasiness,  that  he  pressed  Mr.  Adams  to  let 
him  depart ;  told  him  he  should  never  be  able  to 
return  sufficient  thanks  for  all  his  favours,  but  begged 
that  he  might  no  longer  delay  his  journey  to 
London. 

Adams,  notwithstanding  the  ignorance,  as  he  con- 
ceived it,  of  Mr.  Tow-wouse,  and  the  envy  (for  such 
he  thought  it)  of  Mr.  Barnabas,  had  great  expecta- 
tions from  his  sermons  :  seeing  therefore  Joseph  in  so 
good  a  way,  he  told  him  he  would  agree  to  his  set- 
ting out  the  next  morning  in  the  stage-coach,  that  he 
believed  he  should  have  sufficient,  after  the  reckoning 
paid,  to  procure  him  one  day's  conveyance  in  it,  and 

[ion 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

afterwards  he  would  be  able  to  get  on  on  foot,  or  might 
be  favoured  with  a  lift  in  some  neighbour\s  waggon, 
especially  as  there  was  then  to  be  a  fair  in  the  town 
whither  the  coach  would  carry  him,  to  which  num- 
bers from  his  parish  resorted — -And  as  to  himself, 
he  agreed  to  proceed  to  the  great  city. 

They  were  now  walking  in  the  inn-yard,  when  a 
fat,  fair,  short  person  rode  in,  and,  alighting  from 
his  horse,  went  directly  up  to  Barnabas,  who  was 
smoaking  his  pipe  on  a  bencli.  The  parson  and 
the  stranger  shook  one  another  very  lovingly  by  the 
hand,  and  went  into  a  room   together. 

The  evening  now  coming  on,  Joseph  retired  to  his 
chamber,  whither  the  good  Adams  accompanied  him, 
and  took  this  opportunity  to  expatiate  on  the  great 
mercies  God  had  lately  shown  him,  of  which  he 
ought  not  only  to  have  the  deepest  inward  sense,  but 
likewise  to  express  outward  thankfulness  for  them. 
They  therefore  fell  both  on  their  knees,  and  spent  a 
considerable  time  in  prayer  and  thanksgiving. 

They  had  just  finished  when  Betty  came  in  and 
told  Mr.  Adams  Mr.  Barnabas  desired  to  speak  to 
him  on  some  business  of  consequence  below-stairs. 
Joseph  desired,  if  it  was  likely  to  detain  him  long, 
he  would  let  him  know  it,  that  he  might  go  to  bed, 
which  Adams  promised,  and  in  that  case  they  wished 
one  another  good-night. 

[  102  ] 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

A  PLEASANT  DISCOURSE  BETWEEN  THE  TWO  PARSONS  AND 
THE  BOOKSELLER,  WHICH  WAS  BROKE  OFF  BY  AN 
UNLUCKY  ACCIDENT  HAPPENING  IN  THE  INN,  WHICH 
PRODUCED  A  DIALOGUE  BET\VEEN  MRS.  TOW-WOUSE 
AND  HER  MAID  OF  NO  GENTLE  KIND. 

jA  S  soon  as  Adams  came  into  the  room,  IMr. 
/^k  Barnabas  introduced  him  to  the  stranger, 
/  ^^  who  was,  he  told  him,  a  bookseller,  and 
"^  -^^  would  be  as  likely  to  deal  with  him  for 
his  sermons  as  any  man  whatever.  Adams,  saluting 
the  stranger,  answered  Barnabas,  that  he  was  \ery 
much  obliged  to  him  ;  that  nothing  could  be  more 
convenient,  for  he  had  no  other  business  to  the  great 
city,  and  was  heartily  desirous  of  returning  with  the 
young  man,  who  was  just  recovered  of  his  misfor- 
tune. He  then  snapt  his  fingers  (  as  was  usual  with 
him),  and  took  two  or  three  turns  about  the  room 
in  an  extasy.  And  to  induce  the  bookseller  to  be 
as  expeditious  as  possible,  as  likewise  to  offer  him  a 
better  price  for  his  commodity,  he  assured  them  their 
meeting  was  extremely  lucky  to  himself;  for  that  he 
had  the  most  pressing  occasion  for  money  at  that 

[103] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

time,  his  own  being  almost  spent,  and  having  a 
friend  then  in  the  same  inn,  who  was  just  recovered 
from  some  wounds  he  had  received  from  robbers, 
and  was  in  a  most  indigent  condition.  "So  that 
nothing,"  says  he,  "could  be  so  opportune  for  the 
supplying  both  our  necessities  as  my  making  an 
innnediate  bargain  with  you." 

As  soon  as  he  had  seated  himself,  the  stranger 
began  in  these  words  :  "  Sir,  I  do  not  care  absolutely 
to  deny  engaging  in  what  my  friend  Mr.  Barnabas 
recommends ;  but  sermons  are  mere  drugs.  The 
trade  is  so  vastly  stocked  with  them,  that  really, 
unless  they  come  out  with  the  name  of  Whitefield  or 
Wesley,  or  some  other  such  great  man,  as  a  bishop, 
or  those  sort  of  people,  I  don't  care  to  touch ;  unless 
now  it  was  a  sermon  preached  on  the  30th  of 
January  ;  or  we  could  say  in  the  title-page,  published 
at  the  earnest  request  of  the  congregation,  or  the 
inhabitants ;  but,  truly,  for  a  dry  piece  of  sermons, 
I  had  rather  be  excused ;  especially  as  my  hands  are 
so  full  at  present.  However,  sir,  as  Mr.  Barnabas 
mentioned  them  to  me,  I  will,  if  you  please,  take 
the  manuscript  with  me  to  town,  and  send  you  my 
opinion  of  it  in  a  very  short  time." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Adams,  "  if  you  desire  it,  I  will  read 
two  or  three  discourses  as  a  specimen."  This 
Barnabas,  who  loved  sermons  no  better  than  a  gro- 
cer doth  figs,  immediately  objected  to,  and  advised 

[  104] 


THE    BOOKSELLER 

Adams  to  let  the  bookseller  have  his  sermons  :  telling 
him,  "  If  he  gave  him  a  direction,  he  might  be  cer- 
tain of  a  speedy  answer  ;""  adding,  he  need  not 
scruple  trusting  them  in  his  possession.  '*  No,"  said 
the  bookseller,  "  if  it  was  a  play  that  had  been  acted 
twenty  nights  together,  I  believe  it  would  be  safe." 

Adams  did  not  at  all  relish  the  last  expression ; 
he  said  "  he  was  sorry  to  hear  sermons  compared  to 
plays."  —  "  Not  by  me,  I  assure  you,"  cried  the  book- 
seller, "  though  I  don't  know  whether  the  licensing 
act  may  not  shortly  bring  them  to  the  same  footing ; 
but  I  have  formerly  known  a  hundred  guineas  given 
for  a  play."  —  "  More  shame  for  those  who  gave  it," 
cried  Barnabas.  —  "  Why  so  ?  "  said  the  bookseller, 
"  for  they  got  hundreds  by  it."  —  "  But  is  there  no 
difference  between  conveying  good  or  ill  instructions 
to  mankind.^  "  said  Adams:  "Would  not  an  honest 
mind  rather  lose  money  by  the  one,  than  gain  it  by 
the  other  ?  "  —  "  If  you  can  find  any  such,  I  will  not 
be  their  hindrance,"  answered  the  bookseller ;  "  but 
I  think  those  persons  who  get  by  preaching  sermons 
are  the  properest  to  lose  by  printing  them  :  for  my 
part,  the  copy  that  sells  best  will  be  always  the  best 
copy  in  my  opinion ;  I  am  no  enemy  to  sermons,  but 
because  they  don't  sell :  for  I  would  as  soon  print 
one  of  Whitefield's  as  any  farce  whatever." 

"  Whoever  prints  such  heterodox  stuff  ought  to 
be  hanged,"  says  Barnabas.     "  Sir,"  said  he,  turning 

[105] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

to  Adams,  "  this  fellow's  writings  (I  know  not  whether 
you  have  seen  them)  are  levelled  at  the  clergy.  He 
would  reduce  us  to  the  example  of  the  primitive 
ages,  forsooth !  and  would  insinuate  to  the  people 
that  a  clergyman  ought  to  be  always  preaching  and 
praying.  He  pretends  to  understand  the  Scripture 
literally ;  and  would  make  mankind  believe  that  the 
poverty  and  low  estate  which  was  recommended  to 
the  Church  in  its  infancy,  and  was  only  temporary 
doctrine  adapted  to  her  under  persecution,  was  to  be 
preserved  in  her  flourishing  and  established  state. 
Sir,  the  principles  of  Toland,  Woolston,  and  all  the 
freethinkers,  are  not  calculated  to  do  half  the  mis- 
chief, as  those  professed  by  this  fellow  and  his 
followers." 

"Sir,"  answered  Adams,  "if  Mr.  Whitefield  had 
carried  his  doctrine  no  farther  than  you  mention,  I 
should  have  remained,  as  I  once  was,  his  well-wisher. 
I  am,  myself,  as  great  an  enemy  to  the  luxury  and 
splendour  of  the  clergy  as  he  can  be,  I  do  not, 
more  than  he,  by  the  flourishing  estate  of  the  Church, 
understand  the  palaces,  equipages,  dress,  furniture, 
rich  dainties,  and  vast  fortunes,  of  her  ministers. 
Surely  those  things,  which  savour  so  strongly  of  this 
world,  become  not  the  servants  of  one  who  professed 
His  kingdom  was  not  of  it.  But  when  he  began  to 
call  nonsense  and  enthusiasm  to  his  aid,  and  set  up 
the  detestable  doctrine  of  faith  against  good  works, 

[106] 


FAITH    AND    WORKS 

I  was  his  friend  no  longer  ;  for  surely  that  doctrine 
was  coined  in  hell ;  and  one  would  think  none  but 
the  devil  himself  could  have  the  confidence  to  preach 
it.  For  can  anything  be  more  derogatory  to  the 
honour  of  God  than  for  men  to  imagine  that  the 
all-wise  Being  will  hereafter  say  to  the  good  and 
virtuous,  '  Notwithstanding  the  purity  of  thy  life, 
notwithstanding  that  constant  rule  of  virtue  and 
goodness  in  which  you  walked  upon  earth,  still,  as 
thou  didst  not  believe  everything  in  the  true  ortho- 
dox manner,  thy  want  of  foith  shall  condenm  thee  '  ? 
Or,  on  the  other  side,  can  any  doctrine  have  a  more 
pernicious  influence  on  society,  than  a  persuasion 
that  it  will  be  a  good  plea  for  the  villain  at  the  last 
day  —  '  Lord,  it  is  true  I  never  obeyed  one  of  thy 
commandments,  yet  punish  me  not,  for  I  believe 
them  all '  ?  "^  —  "I  suppose,  sir,"  said  the  bookseller, 
"your  sermons  are  of  a  different  kind."^ — -"Aye, 
sir,"  said  Adams;  "the  contrary,  I  thank  Heaven, 
is  inculcated  in  almost  every  page,  or  I  should  belye 
my  own  opinion,  which  hath  always  been,  that  a 
virtuous  and  good  Turk,  or  lieathen,  are  more  ac- 
ceptable in  the  sight  of  their  Creator  than  a  vicious 
and  wicked  Christian,  though  his  faith  was  as  per- 
fectly orthodox  as  St.  Paul's  himself'"'  —  "I  wish 
you  success,"  says  the  bookseller,  "  but  must  beg  to 
be  excused,  as  my  hands  are  so  very  full  at  present ; 
and,  indeed,  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  a  backwardness 

[107  j 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

in  tlie  trade  to  engage  in  a  book  which  the  clergy 
would  be  certain  to  cry  down,""  — "  God  forbid," 
says  Adams,  "  any  books  should  be  propagated 
which  the  clergy  would  cry  down  ;  but  if  you  mean 
by  the  clergy,  some  few  designing  factious  men,  who 
have  it  at  heart  to  establish  some  favourite  schemes 
at  the  price  of  the  liberty  of  mankind,  and  the  very 
essence  of  religion,  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  such 
persons  to  decry  any  book  they  please ;  witness  that 
excellent  book  called,  '  A  Plain  Account  of  the 
Nature  and  End  of  the  Sacrament ;  "*  a  book  written 
(if  I  may  venture  on  the  expression)  with  the  pen  of 
an  angel,  and  calculated  to  restore  the  true  use  of 
Christianity,  and  of  that  sacred  institution  ;  for  what 
could  tend  more  to  the  noble  purposes  of  religion 
than  fro(|uent  chearful  meetings  among  the  members 
of  a  society,  in  which  they  should,  in  the  presence 
of  one  another,  and  in  the  service  of  the  Supreme 
Being,  make  promises  of  being  good,  friendly,  and 
benevolent  to  each  other  F  Now,  this  excellent 
book  was  attacked  by  a  party,  but  unsuccessfully." 
At  these  words  Barnabas  fell  a-ringing  with  all  the 
violence  imaginable  ;  upon  which  a  servant  attend- 
ing, he  bid  him  "  bring  a  bill  immediately ;  for  that 
he  was  in  company,  for  aught  he  knew,  with  the 
devil  himself;  and  he  expected  to  hear  the  Alcoran, 
the  Leviathan,  or  Woolston  commended,  if  he  staid 
a  few  minutes  longer."     Adams  desired,  "  as  he  was 

[108] 


A    VIOLENT    SCENE 

so  much  moved  at  his  mentioning  a  book  which  he 
did  without  apprehending  any  possibihty  of  offence, 
that  he  would  be  so  kind  to  propose  any  objections 
he  had  to  it,  which  he  would  endeavour  to  answer/' 

—  "I  propose  objections  !  "  said  Barnabas,  "  I  never 
read  a  syllable  in  any  such  wicked  book;  I  never 
saw  it  in  my  life,  I  assure  you."  —  Adams  was  going 
to  answer,  when  a  most  hideous  uproar  began  in  the 
inn.  Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  Mr.  Tow-wouse,  and  Betty, 
all  lifting  up  their  voices  together ;  but  Mrs.  Tow- 
wouse's  voice,  like  a  bass  viol  in  a  concert,  was 
clearly  and  distinctly  distinguished  among  the  rest, 
and  was  heard  to  articulate  the  following  sounds  : 

—  "  O  you  damn'd  villain  !  is  this  the  return  to  all 
the  care  I  have  taken  of  your  family.?  This  the 
reward  of  my  virtue  .?  Is  this  the  manner  in  which 
you  behave  to  one  who  brought  you  a  fortune,  and 
preferred  you  to  so  many  matches,  all  your  betters  ? 
To  abuse  my  bed,  my  own  bed,  with  my  own  servant ! 
but  I  '11  maul  the  slut,  I  '11  tear  her  nasty  eyes  out ! 
Was  ever  such  a  pitiful  dog,  to  take  up  with  such 
a  mean  trollop  ?  If  she  had  been  a  gentlewoman, 
like  myself,  it  had  been  some  excuse  ;  but  a  beggarly, 
saucy,  dirty  servant-maid.  Get  you  out  of  my 
house,  you  whore."  To  which  she  added  another 
name,  which  we  do  not  care  to  stain  our  paper  with. 
It  was  a  monosyllable  beginning  with  a  b — ,  and 
indeed  was  the  same  as  if  she  had  pronounced  the 

[109] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

words,  she-dog.  Which  term  we  shall,  to  avoid 
offence,  use  on  this  occasion,  though  indeed  both 
the  mistress  and  maid  uttered  the  above-mentioned 
b — ,  a  word  extremely  disgustful  to  females  of  the 
lower  sort.  Betty  had  borne  all  hitherto  with 
patience,  and  had  uttered  only  lamentations ;  but 
the  last  appellation  stung  her  to  the  quick.  "  I  am 
a  woman  as  well  as  youi'self,""  she  roared  out,  "  and 
no  she-dog ;  and  if  I  have  been  a  little  naughty, 
I  am  not  the  first ;  if  I  have  been  no  better 
than  I  should  be,"  cries  she,  sobbing,  •'  that 's  no 
reason  you  should  call  me  out  of  my  name ;  my 
b-betters  are  wo-rse  than  me."  —  "  Huzzy,  huzzy," 
says  Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  "  have  you  the  impudence  to 
answer  me  ?  Did  I  not  catch  you,  you  saucy  "  —  and 
then  again  repeated  the  terrible  word  so  odious  to 
female  ears.  "  I  can't  bear  that  name,"  answered 
Betty :  "  if  I  have  been  wicked,  I  am  to  answer 
for  it  myself  in  the  other  world ;  but  I  have  done 
nothing  thafs  unnatural ;  and  I  will  go  out  of  your 
house  this  moment,  for  I  will  never  be  called  she- 
dog  by  any  mistress  in  England."  Mrs.  Tow-wouse 
then  armed  herself  with  the  spit,  but  was  prevented 
from  executing  any  dreadful  purpose  by  Mr.  Adams, 
who  confined  her  arms  with  the  strength  of  a  wrist 
which  Hercules  would  not  have  been  ashamed  of. 
Mr.  Tow-wouse,  being  caught,  as  our  lawyers  express 
it,  with  the  manner,  and  having  no  defence  to  make, 

[110] 


COMPOSURE    RESTORED 

very  priidertly  withdrew  himself;  and  Betty  com- 
mitted herself  to  the  protection  of  the  hostler,  who, 
though  she  could  not  conceive  him  pleased  with 
what  had  happened,  was,  in  her  opinion,  rather  a 
gentler  beast  than  her  mistress. 

Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  at  the  intercession  of  Mr.  Adams, 
and  finding  the  enemy  vanished,  began  to  compose 
herself,  and  at  length  recovered  the  usual  serenity  of 
her  temper,  in  which  we  will  leave  her,  to  open  to 
the  reader  the  steps  which  led  to  a  catastrophe, 
common  enough,  and  comical  enough  too  perhaps, 
in  modern  history,  yet  often  fatal  to  the  repose  and 
well-being  of  families,  and  the  subject  of  many 
ti'agedies,  both  in  life  and  on  the  stage. 


[Ill] 


CHAPTER    EIGHTEEN 

THE  HISTORY  OF  BETTY  THE  CHAMBERMAID,  AND  AN 
ACCOUNT  OF  WHAT  OCCASIONED  THE  VIOLENT 
SCENE    IN    THE    PRECEDING    CHAPTER. 

BETTY,  who  was  the  occasion  of  all  this 
hurry,  had  some  good  qualities.  She 
had  good-nature,  generosity,  and  com- 
passion, but  unfortunately,  her  constitu- 
tion was  composed  of  those  warm  ingredients  which, 
though  the  purity  of  courts  or  nunneries  might  have 
happily  controuled  them,  were  by  no  means  able  to 
endure  the  ticklish  situation  of  a  chambermaid  at  an 
inn  ;  who  is  daily  liable  to  the  solicitations  of  lovers 
of  all  complexions  ;  to  the  dangerous  addresses  of  fine 
gentlemen  of  the  army,  who  sometimes  are  obliged 
to  reside  with  them  a  whole  year  together ;  and, 
above  all,  are  exposed  to  the  caresses  of  footmen, 
stage-coachmen,  and  drawers ;  all  of  whom  employ 
the  whole  artillery  of  kissing,  flattering,  bribing, 
and  every  other  weapon  which  is  to  be  found  in  the 
whole  armoury  of  love,  against  them. 

Betty,  who  was  but  one-and-twenty,  had  now  lived 
three  years  in  this  dangerous  situation,  during  which 

[112] 


BETTY'S    HISTORY 

she  had  escaped  pretty  well.  An  ensij^n  of  foot  was 
the  first  person  who  made  an  impression  on  her 
heart ;  he  did  indeed  raise  a  flame  in  her  which  re- 
quired  the   care   of  a    surgeon   to   cool. 

While  she  burnt  for  him,  several  others  burnt  for 
her.  Officers  of  the  army,  young  gentlemen  travel- 
ling the  western  circuit,  inoffensive  squires,  and  some 
of  graver  character,  were  set  a-fire  by  her  charms  ! 

At  length,  having  perfectly  recovered  the  effects  of 
her  first  unhappy  passion,  she  seemed  to  have  vowed 
a  state  of  perpetual  chastity.  She  was  long  deaf  to 
all  the  sufferings  of  her  lovers,  till  one  day,  at  a 
neighbouring  fair,  the  rhetoric  of  John  the  hostler, 
with  a  new  straw  hat  and  a  pint  of  wine,  made  a 
second    conquest    over   her. 

She  did  not,  however,  feel  any  of  those  flames  on 
this  occasion  which  had  been  the  consequence  of  her 
former  amour ;  nor,  indeed,  those  other  ill  effects 
which  prudent  young  women  very  justly  apprehend 
from  too  absolute  an  indulgence  to  the  pressing  endear- 
ments of  their  lovers.  This  latter,  perhaps,  was  a 
little  owing  to  her  not  being  entirely  constant  to 
John,  with  whom  she  permitted  Tom  Whipwell  the 
stage-coachman,  and  now  and  then  a  handsome  young 
traveller,  to  share  her  favours. 

Mr.  Tow-wouse  had  for  some  time  cast  the  lan- 
guishing eyes  of  affection  on  this  young  maiden.  He 
had  laid  hold  on  every  opportunity  of  saying  tender 
VOL.  I.-8  .    [113] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

things  to  her,  s(jiieezing  her  by  the  hand,  and  some- 
times kissing  her  lips  ;  for,  as  the  violence  of  liis 
passion  had  considerably  abated  to  Mrs.  Tow-wouse, 
so,  like  water,  which  is  stopt  from  its  usual  current 
in  one  place,  it  naturally  sought  a  vent  in  another. 
Mrs.  Tow-wouse  is  thought  to  have  perceived  this 
abatement,  and,  probably,  it  added  very  little  to  the 
natural  sweetness  of  her  temper ;  for  though  she  was 
as  true  to  her  husband  as  the  dial  to  the  sun,  she  was 
rather  more  desirous  of  being  shone  on,  as  being  more 
capable  of  feeling  his  warmth. 

Ever  since  Joseph's  arrival,  Betty  had  conceived  an 
extraordinary  liking  to  him,  which  discovered  itself 
more  and  more  as  he  grew  better  and  better;  till 
that  fatal  evening,  when,  as  she  was  warming  his  bed, 
her  passion  grew  to  such  a  height,  and  so  perfectly 
mastered  both  her  modesty  and  her  reason,  that,  after 
many  fruitless  hints  and  sly  insinuations,  she  at  last 
threw  down  the  warming-pan,  and,  embracing  him 
with  great  eagerness,  swore  he  was  the  handsomest 
creature  she  had   ever  seen. 

Joseph,  in  great  confusion,  leapt  from  her,  and  told 
her  he  was  sorry  to  see  a  young  woman  cast  off  all  re- 
gard to  modesty ;  but  she  had  gone  too  far  to  recede, 
and  grew  so  very  indecent,  that  Joseph  was  obliged, 
contrary  to  his  inclination,  to  use  some  violence  to 
her  ;  and,  taking  her  in  his  arms,  he  shut  her  out  of 
the  room,  and  locked  the  door. 

[114] 


A    CATASTROPHE 

How  ought  man  to  rejoice  that  his  chastity  is  al- 
ways in  his  own  power ;  that,  if  he  hath  sufficient 
strength  of  mind,  he  hath  always  a  competent 
strength  of  body  to  defend  himself,  and  cannot,  like 
a  poor  weak  woman,  be  ravished  against  his  will ! 

Betty  was  in  the  most  violent  agitation  at  this  dis- 
appointment. Rage  and  lust  pulled  her  heart,  as  with 
two  strings,  two  different  ways  ;  one  moment  she 
thought  of  stabbing  Joseph  ;  the  next,  of  taking  him 
in  her  arms,  and  devouring  him  with  kisses ;  but  the 
latter  passion  was  far  more  prevalent.  Then  she 
thought  of  revenging  his  refusal  on  herself;  but, 
whilst  she  was  engaged  in  this  meditation,  happily 
death  presented  himself  to  her  in  so  many  shapes,  of 
drowning,  hanging,  poisoning,  &c.,  that  her  distracted 
mind  could  resolve  on  none.  In  this  perturbation  of 
spirit,  it  accidentally  occurred  to  her  memory  that  her 
master's  bed  was  not  made ;  she  therefore  went 
directly  to  his  room,  where  he  happened  at  that  time 
to  be  engaijed  at  his  bureau.  As  soon  as  she  saw 
him,  she  attempted  to  retire  ;  but  he  called  her  back, 
and,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  squeezed  her  so  tenderly, 
at  the  same  time  whispering  so  many  soft  things  in- 
to her  ears,  and  then  pressed  her  so  closely  with  his 
kisses,  that  the  vanquished  fair  one,  whose  passions 
were  already  raised,  and  which  were  not  so  whimsi- 
cally capricious  that  one  man  only  could  lay  them, 
though,  perhaps,  she  would  have  rather  preferred  that 

[  115  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

one  —  the  vanquished  fair  one  quietly  .submitted,  I 
say,  to  her  master's  will,  who  had  just  attained  the 
accomplishment  of  his  bliss  when  Mrs.  Tow-wouse 
unexpectedly  entered  the  room,  and  caused  all 
that  confusion  which  we  have  before  seen,  and 
which  it  is  not  necessary,  at  present,  to  take  any 
farther  notice  of ;  since,  without  the  assistance  of  a 
single  hint  from  us,  every  reader  of  any  speculation  or 
experience,  though  not  married  himself,  may  easily 
conjecture  that  it  concluded  with  the  discharge  of 
Betty,  the  submission  of  Mr.  Tow-wouse,  with  some 
things  to  be  performed  on  his  side  by  way  of  grati- 
tude for  his  wife''s  goodness  in  being  reconciled 
to  him,  with  many  hearty  promises  never  to  offend 
any  more  in  the  like  manner ;  and,  lastly,  his  quietly 
and  contentedly  bearing  to  be  reminded  of  his  trans- 
gressions, as  a  kind  of  penance,  once  or  twice  a  day 
during  the  residue  of  his  life. 


[116] 


BOOK    II 
CHAPTER    ONE 

OF    DIVISIONS    IN    AUTHORS. 

THERE  are  certain  mysteries  or  secrets  in 
all  trades,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest, 
from  that  of  prime-ministering  to  this 
of  authoring,  which  are  seldom  discovered 
unless  to  members  of  the  same  calling.  Among  those 
used  by  us  gentlemen  of  the  latter  occupation,  I  take 
this  of  dividing  our  works  into  books  and  chapters  to 
be  none  of  the  least  considerable.  Now,  for  want  of 
being  truly  acquainted  with  this  secret,  common 
readers  imagine,  that  by  this  art  of  dividing  we  mean 
only  to  swell  our  works  to  a  much  larger  bulk  than 
they  would  otherwise  be  extended  to.  These  several 
places  therefore  in  our  paper,  which  are  filled  with 
our  books  and  chapters,  are  understood  as  so  much 
buckram,  stays,  and  stay-tape  in  a  taylor  s  bill,  serv- 
ing only  to  make  up  the  sum  total,  commonly  found 
at  the  bottom  of  our  first  page  and  of  his  last. 

But  in  reality  the  case  is  otherwise,  and  in  this  as 
well  as  all  other  instances  we  consult  the  advantage 
of  our   reader,    not   our    own ;    and    indeed,    many 

[  117  1 


'b 


JOSEPH    ANDREAVS 

notable  uses  arise  to  him  from  this  method  ;  for,  first, 
those  little  spaces  between  our  chapters  may  be  looked 
upon  as  an  inn  or  resting-place  where  he  may  stop  and 
take  a  glass  or  any  other  refreshment  as  it  pleases 
him.  Nav,  our  fine  readers  will,  perhaps,  be  scarce 
able  to  travel  farther  than  through  one  of  them  in 
a  day.  As  to  those  vacant  pages  which  are  placed 
between  our  books,  they  are  to  be  regarded  as  those 
stages  where  in  long  journies  the  traveller  stays  some 
time  to  repose  himself,  and  consider  of  what  he  hath 
seen  in  the  parts  he  hath  already  passed  through ;  a 
consideration  which  I  take  the  liberty  to  recommend 
a  little  to  the  reader ;  for,  however  swift  his  capacity 
may  be,  I  would  not  advise  him  to  travel  through 
these  pages  too  fast ;  for  if  he  doth,  he  may  probably 
miss  the  seeing  some  curious  productions  of  nature, 
which  %vill  be  observed  by  the  slower  and  more  ac- 
curate reader.  A  volume  without  any  such  places  of 
rest  resembles  the  opening  of  wilds  or  seas,  which  tires 
the  eye  and  fatigues  the  spirit  when  entered  upon. 

Secondly,  what  are  the  contents  prefixed  to  every 
chapter  but  so  many  inscriptions  over  the  gates  of 
inns  (to  continue  the  same  metaphor),  informing  the 
reader  what  entertainment  he  is  to  expect,  which  if 
he  likes  not,  he  may  travel  on  to  the  next ;  for,  in 
biography,  as  we  are  not  tied  down  to  an  exact 
concatenation  ecjually  with  other  historians,  so  a 
chapter  or  two  (for  instance,  this  I  am  now  writing) 

[118] 


DIVISIONS    IN    AUTHORS 

may  be  often  passed  over  without  any  injury  to  the 
whole.  And  in  these  inscriptions  I  have  been  as 
faitliful  as  possible,  not  imitating  the  celebrated 
Montaigne,  who  promises  you  one  thing  and  gives 
you  another;  nor  some  title-page  authors,  who 
promise  a  great  deal  and  produce  nothing  at  all. 

There  are,  besides  these  more  obvious  benefits, 
several  others  which  our  readers  enjoy  from  this  art 
of  dividing ;  though  perhaps  most  of  them  too 
mysterious  to  be  presently  understood  by  any  who 
are  not  initiated  into  the  science  of  authoring.  To 
mention,  therefore,  but  one  which  is  most  obvious, 
it  prevents  spoiling  the  beauty  of  a  book  by  turning 
down  its  leaves,  a  method  otherwise  necessary  to 
those  readers  who  (though  they  read  with  great 
improvement  and  advantage)  are  apt,  wlien  they 
return  to  their  study  after  half-an -hour's  absence, 
to  forget  where  they  left  off. 

These  divisions  have  the  sanction  of  great  anti- 
quity. Homer  not  only  divided  his  great  work  into 
twenty-four  books  (in  compliment  perhaps  to  the 
/,  twenty-four  letters  to  which  he  had  very  particular 
"""  obligations),  but,  according  to  the  opinion  of  some 
very  sagacious  criticks,  hawked  them  all  separately, 
delivering  only  one  book  at  a  time  (probably  by 
subscription).  He  was  the  first  inventor  of  the  art 
which  hath  so  long  lain  dormant,  of  publishing  by 
numbers ;  an  art  now  brought  to  such  perfection, 

[119] 


i 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

that  even  dictionaries  are  divided  and  exhibited 
piecemeal  to  the  pubhc  ;  nay,  one  bookseller  hath  (to 
encourage  learning  and  ease  the  public)  contrived  to 
give  them  a  dictionary  in  this  divided  manner  for  only 
fifteen  shillings  more  than  it  would  have  cost  entire. 
Virgil  hath  given  us  his  poem  in  twelve  books,  an 
argument  of  his  modesty  ;  for  by  that,  doubtless,  he 
l/^  would  insinuate  that  he  pretends  to  no  more  than 
half  the  merit  of  the  Greek  ;  for  the  same  reason, 
our  Milton  went  originally  no  farther  than  ten;  till, 
being  puifed  up  by  the  praise  of  his  friends,  he  put 
himself  on  the  same  footing  with  the  Roman  poet. 

I  shall  not,  however,  enter  so  deep  into  this  matter 
as  some  very  learned  criticks  have  done ;  who  have 
with  infinite  labour  and  acute  discernment  discovered 
what  books  are  proper  for  embellishment,  and  what 
require  simplicity  only,  particularly  with  regard  to 
similes,  which  I  think  are  now  generally  agreed  to 
become  any  book  but  the  first. 

I  will  dismiss  this  chapter  with  the  following 
observation  :  that  it  becomes  an  author  generally  to 
divide  a  book,  as  it  does  a  butcher  to  joint  his  meat, 
for  such  assistance  is  of  great  help  to  both  the  reader 
and  the  carver.  And  now,  having  indulged  myself 
a  little,  I  will  endeavour  to  indulge  the  curiosity  of 
my  reader,  who  is  no  doubt  impatient  to  know  what 
he  will  find  in  the  subsequent  chapters  of  this  book. 

[120] 


CHAPTER    TWO 

A  SURPRIZING  INSTANCE  OF  MR.  ADAMs's  SHORT  MEMORY, 
WITH  THE  UNFORTUNATE  CONSEQUENCES  WHICH  IT 
BROUGHT   ON    JOSEPH. 

MK.  ADAMS  and  Joseph  were  now 
ready  to  depart  different  ways,  when 
an  accident  determined  the  former  to 
return  with  his  friend,  which  Tow- 
wouse,  Barnabas,  and  the  bookseller  had  not  been 
able  to  do.  This  accident  was,  that  those  sermons, 
which  the  parson  was  travelling  to  London  to  publish, 
were,  O  my  good  reader  !  left  behind  ;  what  he  had 
mistaken  for  them  in  the  saddlebags  being  no  other 
than  three  shirts,  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  some  other 
necessaries,  which  Mrs.  Adams,  who  thought  her 
husband  would  want  shirts  more  than  sermons  on  his 
journey,  had  carefully  provided  him. 

This  discovery  was  now  luckily  owing  to  the  pres- 
ence of  Joseph  at  the  opening  the  saddlebags  ;  who, 
having  heard  his  friend  say  he  carried  with  him 
nine  volumes  of  sermons,  and  not  being  of  that  sect 
of  philosophers  who  can  reduce  all  the  matter  of  the 
world  into  a  nutshell,  seeing  there  was  no  room  for 

[121] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

them  in  the  bags,  wliere  the  parson  had  said  they 
were  deposited,  had  the  curiosity  to  cry  out,  "  Bless 
me,  sir,  where  are  your  sermons?"'''  The  parson 
answered,  "  There,  there,  child  ;  there  they  are,  under 
my  shirts,"  Now  it  happened  that  he  had  taken 
forth  his  last  shirt,  and  the  vehicle  remained  visibly 
empty.  "  Sure,  sir,"  says  Joseph,  "  there  is  nothing 
in  the  bags."  Upon  which  Adams,  starting,  and 
testifying  some  surprize,  cried,  "  Hey !  fie,  fie  upon 
it !  they  are  not  here  sure  enough.  Ay,  they  are 
certainly  left  behind." 

Joseph  was  greatly  concerned  at  the  uneasiness 
which  he  apprehended  his  friend  must  feel  from  this 
disappointment ;  he  begged  him  to  pursue  his  journey, 
and  promised  he  would  himself  return  w  ith  the  books 
to  him  with  the  utmost  expedition.  "  No,  thank 
you,  child,"  answered  Adams  ;  "  it  shall  not  be  so. 
What  would  it  avail  me,  to  tarry  in  the  great  city, 
unless  I  had  my  discourses  with  me,  which  are  ut  ita 
dicam,  the  sole  cause,  the  a'd'ia  monotate  of  my  pere- 
grination .?  No,  child,  as  this  accident  hath  happened, 
I  am  resolved  to  return  back  to  my  cure,  together 
with  you  ;  which  indeed  my  inclination  sufficiently 
leads  me  to.  This  disappointment  may  perhaps  be 
intended  for  my  good."  He  concluded  with  a  verse 
out  of  Theocritus,  which  signifies  no  more  than  that 
sometimes  it  rains,  and  sometimes  the  sun  shines. 

Joseph  bowed  with  obedience  and  thankfulness  for 

[  122] 


THE    HOMEWARD    JOURNEY 

the  inclination  which  the  parson  expressed  of  return- 
ing with  him  ;  and  now  the  bill  was  called  for,  which, 
on  examination,  amounted  within  a  shilling  to  the 
sum  Mr.  Adams  had  in  his  pocket.  Perhaps  the 
reader  may  wonder  how  he  was  able  to  produce  a 
sufficient  sum  for  so  many  days  :  that  he  may  not 
be  surprized,  therefore,  it  cannot  be  unnecessary  to 
acquaint  him  that  he  had  borrowed  a  guinea  of  a 
servant  belonging  to  the  coach  and  six,  who  had  been 
formerly  one  of  his  parishioners,  and  whose  master, 
the  owner  of  the  coach,  then  lived  within  three  miles 
of  him  ;  for  so  good  was  the  credit  of  Mr.  Adams, 
that  even  Mr.  Peter,  the  Lady  Booby's  steward, 
would  have  lent  him  a  guinea  with  very  little 
security. 

Mr.  Adams  discharged  the  bill,  and  they  were  both 
setting  out,  having  agreed  to  ride  and  tie  ;  a  method 
of  travelling  much  used  by  persons  who  have  but  one 
horse  between  them,  and  is  thus  performed.  The 
two  travellers  set  out  together,  one  on  horseback, 
the  other  on  foot :  now,  as  it  generally  happens  that 
he  on  horseback  outgoes  him  on  foot,  the  custom 
is,  that,  when  he  arrives  at  the  distance  agreed  on, 
he  is  to  dismount,  tie  the  horse  to  some  gate,  tree, 
post,  or  other  thing,  and  then  proceed  on  foot ;  when 
the  other  comes  up  to  the  horse  he  unties  him, 
mounts,  and  gallops  on,  till,  having  passed  by  his 
fellow-traveller,  he  likewise  arrives  at  the  place  of 

[  123  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

tying.  And  this  is  that  method  of  travelhng  so 
much  in  use  among  our  prudent  ancestors,  who  knew 
that  horses  had  mouths  as  well  as  legs,  and  that  they 
could  not  use  the  latter  without  being  at  the  expense 
of  sufferinc:  the  beasts  themselves  to  use  the  former. 
This  was  the  method  in  use  in  those  days  when, 
instead  of  a  coach  and  six,  a  member  of  parliament's 
lady  used  to  mount  a  pillion  behind  her  husband ; 
and  a  grave  serjeant  at  law  condescended  to  amble 
to  Westminster  on  an  easy  pad,  with  his  clerk  kick- 
ing his  heels  behind  him. 

Adams  was  now  gone  some  minutes,  having  insisted 
on  Joseph's  beginning  the  journey  on  horseback,  and 
Joseph  had  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  when  the  hostler 
presented  him  a  bill  for  the  horse's  board  during  his 
residence  at  the  inn.  Joseph  said  Mr.  Adams  had 
paid  all ;  but  this  matter,  being  referred  to  Mr.  Tow- 
wouse,  was  by  him  decided  in  favour  of  the  hostler, 
and  indeed  with  truth  and  justice  ;  for  this  was  a 
fresh  instance  of  that  shortness  of  memory  which 
did  not  arise  from  want  of  parts,  but  that  continual 
hurry  in  which  parson  Adams  was  always  involved. 

Joseph  was  now  reduced  to  a  dilemma  which  ex- 
tremely puzzled  him.  The  sum  due  for  horse-meat 
was  twelve  shillings  (for  Adams,  who  had  borrowed 
the  beast  of  his  clerk,  had  ordered  him  to  be  fed  as 
well  as  they  could  feed  him),  and  the  cash  in  his 
pocket  amounted  to  sixpence  (for  Adams  had  divided 

[  124] 


THE    KEEPSAKE 

the  last  shilling  with  him).  Now,  though  there  have 
been  some  ingenious  persons  who  have  contrived  to 
pay  twelve  shillings  with  sixpence,  Joseph  was  not 
one  of  them.  He  had  never  contracted  a  debt  in  his 
life,  and  was  consequently  the  less  ready  at  an  expe- 
dient to  extricate  himself.  Tow-wouse  was  willing 
to  give  him  credit  till  next  time,  to  which  Mrs.  Tow- 
wouse  would  probably  have  consented  (for  such  was 
Joseph's  beauty,  that  it  had  made  some  impression 
even  on  that  piece  of  flint  which  that  good  woman 
wore  in  her  bosom  by  way  of  heart).  Joseph  would 
have  found,  therefore,  very  likely  the  passage  free,  had 
he  not,  when  he  honestly  discovered  the  nakedness 
of  his  pockets,  pulled  out  that  little  piece  of  gold 
which  we  have  mentioned  before.  This  caused  Mrs. 
Tow-wouse's  eyes  to  water ;  she  told  Joseph  she  did 
not  conceive  a  man  could  want  money  whilst  he  had 
gold  in  his  pocket.  Joseph  answered  he  had  such  a 
value  for  that  little  piece  of  gold,  that  he  would  not 
part  with  it  for  a  hundred  times  the  riches  which  the 
greatest  esquire  in  the  county  was  worth.  "  A  pretty 
way,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  "  to  run  in  debt, 
and  then  refuse  to  part  with  your  money,  because  you 
have  a  value  for  it !  I  never  knew  any  piece  of  gold 
of  more  value  than  as  many  shillings  as  it  would 
change  for."  —  "  Not  to  preserve  my  life  from  starv- 
ing, nor  to  redeem  it  from  a  robber,  would  I  part 
with  this  dear  piece  ! "  answered  Joseph.     "  What," 

[  125  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

says  Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  "  I  suppose  it  was  given  you 
by  some  vile  trollop,  some  miss  or  other ;  if  it  had 
been  the  present  of  a  virtuous  woman,  you  would  not 
have  had  such  a  value  for  it.  My  husband  is  a  fool 
if  he  parts  with  the  horse  without  being  paid  for 
him."  —  "  No,  no,  I  can''t  part  with  the  horse,  indeed, 
till  1  have  the  money,"  cried  Tow-w  ouse.  A  resolu- 
tion highly  commended  by  a  lawyer  then  in  the  yard, 
who  declared  Mr.  Tow-wouse  might  justify  the 
detainer. 

As  we  cannot  therefore  at  present  get  Mr.  Joseph 
out  of  the  inn,  we  shall  leave  him  in  it,  and  carry  our 
reader  on  after  parson  Adams,  who,  his  mind  being 
perfectly  at  ease,  fell  into  a  contemplation  on  a  pas- 
sage in  ^schylus,  which  entertained  him  for  three 
miles  together,  without  suffering  him  once  to  reflect 
on  his  fellow-traveller. 

At  length,  having  spun  out  his  thread,  and  being 
now  at  the  summit  of  a  hill,  he  cast  his  eyes  back- 
wards, and  wondered  that  he  could  not  see  any  sign 
of  Joseph.  As  he  left  him  ready  to  mount  the  horse, 
he  could  not  apprehend  any  mischief  had  happened, 
neither  could  he  suspect  that  he  missed  his  way,  it 
being  so  broad  and  plain  ;  the  only  reason  which 
presented  itself  to  him  was,  that  he  had  met  with  an 
acquaintance  who  had  prevailed  with  him  to  delay 
some  time  in  discourse. 

He  therefore  resolved  to  proceed  slowly  forwards, 

[126] 


THE    PARSON'S    DILEMMA 

not  doubting  but  that  he  should  be  shortly  over- 
taken ;  and  soon  came  to  a  lai-ge  water,  which,  filling 
the  whole  road,  he  saw  no  method  of  passing  unless 
by  wading  through,  which  he  accordingly  did  up  to 
his  middle  ;  but  was  no  sooner  got  to  the  other  side 
than  he  perceived,  if  he  had  looked  over  the  hedge, 
he  would  liave  found  a  footpath  capable  of  conduct- 
ing him  without  wetting  his  shoes. 

His  surprize  at  Joseph's  not  coming  up  grew  now 
very  troublesome  :  he  began  to  fear  he  knew  not 
what ;  and  as  he  determined  to  move  no  farther, 
and,  if  he  did  not  shortly  overtake  him,  to  return 
back,  he  wished  to  find  a  house  of  public  entertain- 
ment where  he  might  dry  his  clothes  and  refresh 
himself  with  a  pint ;  but,  seeing  no  such  (for  no  other 
reason  than  because  he  did  not  cast  his  eyes  a  hun- 
dred yards  forwards),  he  sat  himself  do^^^l  on  a  stile, 
and  pulled  out  his  ^schylus. 

A  fellow  passing  presently  by,  Adams  asked  him  if 
he  could  direct  him  to  an  alehouse.  The  fellow,  who 
had  just  left  it,  and  perceived  the  house  and  sign  to 
be  within  sight,  thinking  he  had  jeered  him,  and 
being  of  a  morose  temper,  bade  him  follow  his  nose 
and  be  d — n'd.  Adams  told  him  he  was  a  saucy 
jackanapes ;  upon  which  the  fellow  turned  about 
angrily  ;  but,  perceiving  Adams  clench  his  fist,  he 
thought  proper  to  go  on  without  taking  any  farther 
notice. 

[127] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

A  horseman,  following  immediately  after,  and  being 
asked  the  same  (juestion,  answered,  "  Friend,  there  is 
one  within  a  stone*'s  throw  ;  I  believe  you  may  see  it 
before  you."  Adams,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  cried,  "  I 
protest,  and  so  there  is  ; "  and,  thanking  his  informer, 
proceeded  directly  to  it. 


[128] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

THE  OPINION  OF  TWO  LAWYERS  CONCERNING  THE  SAME 
GENTLEMAN,  WITH  MR.  ADAMs's  INQUIRY  INTO  THE 
RELIGION    OF    HIS    HOST. 

HE  had  just  entered  the  house,  and  called 
for  his  pint,  and  seated  himself,  when 
two  horsemen  came  to  the  door,  and, 
fastening  their  horses  to  the  rails, 
alighted.  They  said  there  was  a  violent  shower  of 
rain  coming  on,  which  they  intended  to  weather 
there,  and  went  into  a  little  room  by  themselves, 
not  perceiving  Mr.  Adams. 

One  of  these  immediately  asked  the  other,  "  If  he 
had  seen  a  more  comical  adventure  a  gi-eat  while  ?  " 
Upon  which  the  other  said,  "  He  doubted  whether, 
by  law,  the  landlord  could  justify  detaining  the  horse 
for  his  corn  and  hay.""  But  the  former  answered, 
"  Undoubtedly  he  can  ;  it  is  an  adj  udged  case,  and  I 
have  known  it  tried." 

Adams,  who,  though  he  was,  as  the  reader  may  sus- 
pect, a  little  inclined  to  forgetfulness,  never  wanted 
more  than  a  hint  to  remind  him,  overhearing  their 
discourse,  immediately  suggested  to  himself  that  this 
vol,.  I. -9  [129] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

was  his  own  horse,  and  that  he  had  forgot  to  pay  for 
him,  which,  upon  inquiry,  he  was  certified  of  by  the 
gentlemen  ;  who  added,  that  the  horse  was  hkely  to 
have  more  rest  than  food,  unless  he  was  paid  for. 

The  poor  parson  resolved  to  return  presently  to 
the  inn,  though  he  knew  no  more  than  Joseph  how 
to  procure  his  horse  his  liberty  ;  he  was,  however, 
prevailed  on  to  stay  under  covert,  till  the  shower, 
which  was  now  very  violent,  was  over. 

The  three  travellers  then  sat  down  together  over 
a  mug  of  good  beer  ;  when  Adams,  who  had  observed 
a  gentleman's  house  as  he  passed  along  the  road, 
inquired  to  whom  it  belonged  ;  one  of  the  horsemen 
had  no  sooner  mentioned  the  owner's  name,  than  the 
other  began  to  revile  him  in  the  most  opprobrious 
terms.  The  English  language  scarce  affords  a  single 
reproachful  word,  which  he  did  not  vent  on  this 
occasion.  He  charged  him  likewise  with  many  par- 
ticular facts.  He  said,  "  He  no  more  regarded  a 
field  of  wheat  when  he  was  hunting,  than  he  did  the 
highway  ;  that  he  had  injured  several  poor  farmers 
by  trampling  their  corn  under  his  horse's  heels  ;  and 
if  any  of  them  begged  him  with  the  utmost  sub- 
mission to  refrain,  his  horsewhip  was  always  ready  to 
do  them  justice."  He  said,  "  That  he  was  the  great- 
est tyrant  to  the  neighbours  in  every  other  instance, 
and  would  not  suffer  a  farmer  to  keep  a  gun,  though 
he  might  justify  it  by  law ;  and  in  his  own  family  so 

^  [  130  ] 


OPPOSITE    OPINIONS 

cruel  a  master,  that  he  never  kept  a  servant  a  twelve- 
month. In  his  capacity  as  a  justice,"  continued  he, 
"  he  behaves  so  partially,  that  he  commits  or  acquits 
just  as  he  is  in  the  humour,  without  any  regard  to 
truth  or  evidence ;  the  devil  may  carry  any  one 
before  him  for  me ;  I  would  rather  be  tried  before 
some  judges,  than  be  a  prosecutor  before  him  :  if  I 
had  an  estate  in  the  neighbourhood,  I  would  sell  it 
for  half  the  value  rather  than  live  near  him." 

Adams  shook  his  head,  and  said,  "  He  was  sorry 
such  men  were  suffered  to  proceed  with  impunity, 
and  that  riches  could  set  any  man  above  the  law." 
The  reviler,  a  little  after,  retiring  into  the  yard,  the 
gentleman  who  had  first  mentioned  his  name  to 
Adams  began  to  assure  him  "  that  his  companion 
was  a  prejudiced  person.  It  is  true,"  says  he,  "  per- 
haps, that  he  may  have  sometimes  pursued  his  game 
over  a  field  of  corn,  but  he  hath  always  made  the 
party  ample  satisfaction  :  that  so  far  from  tyrannising 
over  his  neighbours,  or  taking  away  their  guns,  he 
himself  knew  several  farmers  not  qualified,  who  not 
only  kept  guns,  but  killed  game  with  them  ;  that  he 
was  the  best  of  masters  to  his  servants,  and  several 
of  them  had  grown  old  in  his  service ;  that  he  was 
the  best  justice  of  peace  in  the  kingdom,  and,  to  his 
certain  knowledge,  had  decided  many  difficult  points, 
which  were  referred  to  him,  with  the  greatest  equity 
and   the  highest    wisdom ;    and   he  verily  believed, 

[131] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

several  persons  would  give  a  year's  purchase  more  for 
an  estate  near  him,  than  under  the  wings  of  any 
other  great  man."  He  had  just  finished  his  encomium 
when  his  companion  returned  and  acquainted  him 
the  storm  was  over.  Upon  which  thev  presentlv 
mounted  their  horses  and  departed. 

Adams,  who  was  in  the  utmost  anxiety  at  those 
different  characters  of  the  same  person,  asked  his 
host  if  he  knew  the  gentleman  :  for  he  began  to 
imagine  they  had  by  mistake  been  speaking  of  two 
several  gentlemen.  "  No,  no,  master,"  answered  the 
host  (a  shrewd,  cunning  fellow) ;  "  I  know  the  gentle- 
man very  well  of  whom  they  have  been  speaking,  as 
I  do  the  gentlemen  who  spoke  of  him.  As  for  riding 
over  other  men's  corn,  to  my  knowledge  he  hath  not 
been  on  horseback  these  two  years.  I  never  heard 
he  did  any  injury  of  that  kind;  and  as  to  making 
reparation,  he  is  not  so  free  of  his  money  as  that 
comes  to  neither.  Nor  did  I  ever  hear  of  his  taking 
away  any  man's  gun ;  nay,  I  know  several  who  have 
guns  in  their  houses ;  but  as  for  killing  game  with 
them,  no  man  is  stricter;  and  I  believe  he  would 
ruin  any  who  did.  You  heard  one  of  the  gentlemen 
say  he  was  the  worst  master  in  the  world,  and  the 
other  that  he  is  the  best ;  but  for  my  own  part,  I 
know  all  his  servants,  and  never  heard  from  any  of 
them  that  he  was  either  one  or  the  other."  —  "  Aye  ! 
aye  !  "  says  Adams  ;  "  and  how  doth  he  behave  as  a 

[132  J 


UNTRUTHFUL    TESTIMONY 

justice,  pray  ? ""  —  "  Faith,  friend,""  answered  the  host, 
"  I  question  whether  he  is  in  the  commission  ;  the 
only  cause  I  have  heard  he  hath  decided  a  great 
while,  was  one  between  those  very  two  persons  who 
just  went  out  of  this  house  ;  and  I  am  sure  he  deter- 
mined that  justly,  for  I  heard  the  whole  matter." — 
"  Which  did  he  decide  it  in  favour  of  ? "  quoth 
Adams.  —  "I  think  I  need  not  answer  that  question," 
cried  the  host,  "after  the  different  characters  you 
have  heard  of  him.  It  is  not  my  business  to  con- 
tradict gentlemen  while  they  are  drinking  in  my 
house ;  but  I  knew  neither  of  them  spoke  a  syllable 
of  truth."  —  "  God  forbid  ! "  said  Adams,  "  that  men 
should  arrive  at  such  a  pitch  of  wickedness  to  belye 
the  character  of  their  neighbour  from  a  little  private 
affection,  or,  what  is  infinitely  worse,  a  private  spite. 
I  rather  believe  we  have  mistaken  them,  and  they 
mean  two  other  persons  ;  for  there  are  many  houses 
on  the  road."  — "  Why,  prithee,  friend,"  cries  the 
host,  "  dost  thou  pretend  never  to  have  told  a  lye  in 
thy  life  ?  "  —  "  Never  a  malicious  one,  I  am  certain," 
answered  Adams,  "  nor  with  a  design  to  injure  the 
reputation  of  any  man  living."  —  "  Pugh  !  malicious  ; 
no,  no,"  replied  the  host ;  "  not  malicious  with  a 
design  to  hang  a  man,  or  bring  him  into  trouble ; 
but  surely,  out  of  love  to  oneself,  one  must  speak 
better  of  a  friend  than  an  enemy."  —  "  Out  of  love 
to  yourself,  you  should  confine  yourself  to   truth," 

[133] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

says  Adams,  "  for  by  doing  otherwise  you  injure  the 
noblest  part  of  yourself,  your  immortal  soul.     I  can 
hardly  believe  any  man  such  an  idiot  to  risque  the 
loss  of  that  by  any  trifling  gain,  and  the  greatest 
gain  in  this  world  is  but  dirt  in  comparison  of  what 
shall  be  revealed  hereafter."     Upon  which  the  host, 
taking  up  the  cup,  with  a  smile,  drank  a  health  to 
hereafter  ;  adding,  "  He  was  for  something  present."" 
—  "  Why,"  says  Adams  very  gravely,  "  do  not  you 
believe   another    world?"     To  which  the   host  an- 
swered, "  Yes  ;  he  was  no  atheist."  —  "  And  you  be- 
lieve  you  have  an   immortal    soul  ? "   cries   Adams. 
He  answered,  "  God  forbid  he  should  not."  —  "  And 
heaven  and  hell  ? "  said  the  parson.     The  host  then 
bid  him  "  not  to  profane  ;  for  those  were  things  not 
to   be    mentioned   nor   thought  of  but  in  church." 
Adams  asked  him,  "  Why  he  went  to  church,  if  what 
he  learned  there  had  no  influence  on  his  conduct  in 
life ? "     "I  go  to  church,"  answered  the  host,  *' to 
say  my  prayers  and  behave  godly."  — "  And  dost 
not  thou,"  cried  Adams,  "  believe  what  thou  hearest 
at  church  ?  "  —  "  Most  part  of  it,  master,"  returned 
the  host.     "  And  dost  not  thou  then  tremble,"  cries 
Adams,  "at  the  thought  of  eternal  punishment?" 
— "  As  for  that,  master,"  said  he,   "  I  never  once 
thought  about  it ;  but  what  signifies  talking  about 
matters  so  far  off?     The  mug  is  out,  shall  I  draw 
another  ?  " 

[131] 


MRS.    SLIPSLOP    AGAIN 

Whilst  he  was  going  for  that  purpose,  a  stage- 
coach drove  up  to  the  door.     The  coachman  coming 
into  the  house  was  asked  by  the  mistress  what  pas- 
sengers he  had  in  his  coach  ?     "  A  parcel  of  squinny- 
gut  b — s,"  says  he  ;  "I  have  a  good  mind  to  overturn 
them  ;  you  won't  prevail  upon  them  to  drink  any- 
thing, I  assure  you."     Adams  asked  him,  "  If  he  had 
not  seen  a  young  man  on  horseback  on  the  road" 
(describing  Joseph).     "  Aye,"  said  the  coachman,  "a 
gentlewoman  in  my  coach  that  is  his  acquaintance 
redeemed  him  and  his  horse ;  he  would  have  been 
here    before  this  time,  had   not   the   storm    driven 
him  to  shelter."     "  God  bless  her  !  "  said  Adams,  in 
a  rapture ;  nor  could  he  delay  walking  out  to  satisfy 
himself  who  this  charitable  woman  was;  but  what 
was  his  surprize  when  he  saw  his  old  acquaintance. 
Madam  Slipslop  ?     Hers  indeed  was  not  so  great, 
because  she  had  been  informed  by  Joseph  that  he 
was  on  the  road.     Very  civil  were  the  salutations  on 
both  sides ;  and  Mrs.  Slipslop  rebuked  the  hostess 
for  denying  the   gentleman  to  be   there  when  she 
asked  for  him ;  but  indeed  the  poor  woman  had  not 
erred  designedly  ;  for  Mrs.  Slipslop  asked  for  a  clergy- 
man, and  she  had  unhappily  mistaken  Adams  for  a 
person  travelling  to  a  neighbouring  fair  with  the 
thimble  and  button,  or  some  other  such  operation  ; 
for  he  marched  in  a  swinging  great  but  short  white 
coat  with  black  buttons,  a  short  wig,  and  a  hat  which, 

[135] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

so  far  from  having  a  black  hatband,  had  nothing 
black  about  it. 

Joseph  was  now  come  up,  and  Mrs.  Slipslop  would 
have  had  him  quit  his  horse  to  the  parson,  and  come 
himself  into  the  coach ;  but  he  absolutely  refused, 
saying,  he  thanked  Heaven  he  was  well  enough 
recovered  to  be  very  able  to  ride ;  and  added,  he 
hoped  he  knew  his  duty  better  than  to  ride  in  a 
coach  while  Mr.  Adams  was  on  horseback. 

Mrs.  Slipslop  would  have  persisted  longer,  had  not 
a  lady  in  the  coach  put  a  short  end  to  the  dispute, 
by  refusing  to  suffer  a  fellow  in  a  livery  to  ride  in 
the  same  coach  with  herself;  so  it  was  at  length 
agreed  that  Adams  should  fill  the  vacant  place  in  the 
coach,  and  Joseph  should  proceed  on  horseback. 

They  had  not  proceeded  far  before  Mrs.  Slipslop, 
addressing  herself  to  the  parson,  spoke  thus :  — 
"There  hath  been  a  strange  alteration  in  our  family, 
Mr.  Adams,  since  Sir  Thomas's  death."  "  A  strange 
alteration  indeed,"  says  Adams,  "as  I  gather  from 
some  hints  which  have  dropped  fi-om  Joseph."  — 
"  Aye,"  says  she,  "  I  could  never  have  believed  it ; 
but  the  longer  one  lives  in  the  world,  the  more  one 
sees.  So  Joseph  hath  given  you  hints."  "  But  of 
what  nature  will  always  remain  a  perfect  secret  with 
me,"  cries  the  parson  :  "  he  forced  me  to  promise 
before  he  would  communicate  an>i:hing.  I  am  indeed 
concerned  to  find  her  ladyship  behave  in  so  unbecoming 

[  136  ] 


LADY    BOOBY    CRITICISED 

a  manner.  I  always  thought  her  in  the  main  a  good 
lady,  and  should  never  have  suspected  her  of  thoughts 
so  unworthy  a  Christian,  and  with  a  young  lad  her 
own  servant."  "  These  things  are  no  secrets  to  me, 
I  assure  you,"  cries  Slipslop,  "and  I  believe  they 
will  be  none  anywhere  shortly;  for  ever  since  the 
boy's  departure,  she  hath  behaved  more  like  a  mad 
woman  than  anything  else,"  "  Truly,  I  am  heartily 
concerned,"  says  Adams,  "  for  she  was  a  good  sort 
of  a  lady.  Indeed,  I  have  often  wished  she  had 
attended  a  little  more  constantly  at  the  service,  but 
she  hath  done  a  great  deal  of  good  in  the  parish." 
"  O  Mr.  Adams,"  says  Slipslop,  "  people  that  don't 
see  all,  often  know  nothing.  Many  things  have  been 
given  away  in  our  family,  I  do  assure  you,  without 
her  knowledge.  I  have  heard  you  say  in  the  pulpit 
we  ouffht  not  to  brao; :  but  indeed  I  can't  avoid  say- 
ing,  if  she  had  kept  the  keys  herself,  the  poor  would 
have  wanted  many  a  cordial  which  I  have  let  them 
have.  As  for  my  late  master,  he  was  as  worthy  a 
man  as  ever  lived,  and  would  have  done  infinite  good 
if  he  had  not  been  controuled ;  but  he  loved  a  quiet 
life.  Heaven  rest  his  soul !  I  am  confident  he  is  there, 
and  enjoys  a  quiet  life,  which  some  folks  would  not 
allow  him  here."  —  Adams  answered,  "  He  had  never 
heard  this  before,  and  w  as  mistaken  if  she  herself  (  for 
he  remembered  she  used  to  commend  her  mistress  and 
blame  her  master)  had  not  formerly  been  of  another 

[137] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

opinion."  "  I  don't  know,""  replied  she,  "  what  I  might 
once  think  ;  but  now  I  am  confidous  matters  are  as  I 
tell  you ;  the  world  will  shortly  see  who  hath  been 
deceived ;  for  my  part,  I  say  nothing,  but  that  it  is 
wondersome  how  some  people  can  carry  all  things 
with  a  grave  face." 

Thus  Mr.  Adams  and  she  discoursed,  till  they  came 
opposite  to  a  great  house  which  stood  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  road  :  a  lady  in  the  coach,  spying  it, 
cried,  "Yonder  lives  the  anfortunate  Leonora,  if  one 
can  justly  call  a  woman  unfortunate  whom  we  must 
own  at  the  same  time  guilty  and  the  author  of  her 
own  calamity."  This  was  abundantly  sufficient  to 
awaken  the  curiosity  of  Mr.  Adams,  as  indeed  it  did 
that  of  the  whole  company,  who  jointly  solicited  the 
lady  to  acquaint  them  with  Leonora's  history,  since 
it  seemed,  by  what  she  had  said,  to  contain  something 
remarkable. 

The  ladv,  who  was  perfectly  well-bred,  did  not 
require  many  entreaties,  and  having  only  wished  their 
entertainment  might  make  amends  for  the  company's 
attention,  she  began  in  the  following  manner. 


[138] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

THE  HISTORY  OF  LEONORA,  OR  THE  UNFORTUNATE  JILT. 

1E0N0RA  was  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  of 
fortune ;  she  was  tall  and  well-shaped, 
t  with  a  sprightliness  in  her  countenance 
which  often  attracts  beyond  more  regu- 
lar features  joined  with  an  insipid  air:  nor  is  this 
kind  of  beauty  less  apt  to  deceive  than  allure;  the 
good  humour  which  it  indicates  being  often  mistaken 
for  good  nature,  and  the  vivacity  for  true  under- 
standing. 

Leonora,  who  was  now  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  lived 
with  an  aunt  of  hers  in  a  town  in  the  north  of  Eng- 
land. She  was  an  extreme  lover  of  gaiety,  and  very 
rarely  missed  a  ball  or  any  other  public  assembly ; 
where  she  had  frequent  opportunities  of  satisfying  a 
greedy  appetite  of  vanity,  with  the  preference  which 
was  given  her  by  the  men  to  almost  every  other 
woman  present. 

Among  many  young  fellows  who  were  particular 
in  their  gallanti'ies  towards  her,  Horatio  soon  distin- 
guished himself  in  her  eves  beyond  all  his  competi- 

[139] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

tors ;  she  danced  with  more  than  ordinary  gaiety 
when  he  happened  to  be  her  partner ;  neither  the 
fairness  of  the  evening,  nor  the  musick  of  the  nightin- 
gale, could  lengthen  her  walk  like  his  company.  She 
affected  no  longer  to  understand  the  civilities  of 
others  ;  whilst  she  inclined  so  attentive  an  ear  to 
every  compliment  of  Horatio,  that  she  often  smiled 
even  when  it  was  too  delicate  for  her  comprehension. 

"  Pray,  madam,"  says  Adams,  "  who  was  this 
squire  Horatio  ?  " 

Horatio,  says  the  lady,  was  a  young  gentleman  of 
a  good  family,  bred  to  the  law,  and  had  been  some 
few  years  called  to  the  degree  of  a  barrister.  His 
face  and  person  were  such  as  the  generality  allowed 
handsome  ;  but  he  had  a  dignity  in  his  air  very  rarely 
to  be  seen.  His  temper  was  of  the  saturnine  com- 
plexion, and  without  the  least  taint  of  moroseness. 
He  had  wit  and  humour,  with  an  inclination  to 
satire,  which  he  indulged  rather  too  much. 

This  gentleman,  who  had  contracted  the  most 
violent  passion  for  Leonora,  was  the  last  person  who 
perceived  the  probability  of  its  success.  The  whole 
town  had  made  the  match  for  him  before  he  himself 
had  drawn  a  confidence  from  her  actions  sufficient  to 
mention  his  passion  to  her;  for  it  was  his  opinion 
( and  perhaps  he  was  there  in  the  right )  that  it  is 
highly  impolitick  to  talk  seriously  of  love  to  a 
woman  before  you  have  made  such  a  progress  in  her 

[140] 


HISTORY    OF    LEONORA 

affections,  that  she  herself  expects  and  desires  to 
hear  it. 

But  whatever  diffidence  the  fears  of  a  lover  may 
create,  which  are  apt  to  magnify  every  favour  con- 
ferred on  a  rival,  and  to  see  the  little  advances 
towards  themselves  through  the  other  end  of  the 
perspective,  it  was  impossible  that  Horatio"'s  passion 
should  so  blind  his  discernment  as  to  prevent  his 
conceiving  hopes  from  the  behaviour  of  Leonora, 
whose  fondness  for  him  was  now  as  visible  to  an 
indifferent  person  in  their  company  as  his  for  her. 

"  I  never  knew  any  of  these  forward  sluts  come  to 
good  "  (says  the  lady  who  refused  Joseph's  entrance 
into  the  coach),  "  nor  shall  I  wonder  at  anything 
she  doth  in  the  sequel." 

The  lady  proceeded  in  her  story  thus :  It  was  in 
the  midst  of  a  gay  conversation  in  the  walks  one 
evening,  when  Horatio  whispered  Leonora,  that  he 
was  desirous  to  take  a  turn  or  two  with  her  in 
private,  for  that  he  had  something  to  communicate 
to  her  of  great  consequence.  "  Are  you  sure  it  is 
of  consequence  ?  "  said  she,  smiling.  "  I  hope,"  an- 
swered he,  "  you  Avill  think  so  too,  since  the  whole 
future  happiness  of  my  life  must  depend  on  the 
event." 

Leonora,  who  very  much  suspected  what  was  com- 
ing, would  have  deferred  it  till  another  time ;  but 
Horatio,  who    had   more   than  half  conquered   the 

[141] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

difficulty  of  speaking  by  the  first  motion,  was  so  very 
importunate,  that  she  at  last  yielded,  and,  leaving 
the  rest  of  the  company,  they  turned  aside  into  an 
unfrequented  walk. 

They  had  retired  far  out  of  the  sight  of  the  com- 
pany, both  maintaining  a  strict  silence.  At  last 
Horatio  made  a  full  stop,  and  taking  Leonora,  who 
stood  pale  and  trembling,  gently  by  the  hand,  he 
fetched  a  deep  sigh,  and  then,  looking  on  her  eyes 
with  all  the  tenderness  imaginable,  he  cried  out  in  a 
faltering  accent,  "  O  Leonora !  is  it  necessary  for 
me  to  declare  to  you  on  what  the  future  happiness 
of  my  life  must  be  founded  ?  Must  I  say  there  is 
something  belonging  to  you  which  is  a  bar  to  my 
happiness,  and  which  unless  you  will  part  with,  I 
must  be  miserable ! "  —  "  What  can  that  be  ?  "  replied 
Leonora.  "  No  wonder,"  said  he,  "  you  are  surprized 
that  I  should  make  an  objection  to  anything  which 
is  yours :  yet  sure  you  may  guess,  since  it  is  the  only 
one  which  the  riches  of  the  world,  if  they  were  mine, 
should  purchase  for  me.  Oh,  it  is  that  which  you 
must  part  with  to  bestow  all  the  rest !  Can  Leonora, 
or  rather  will  she,  doubt  longer  ?  Let  me  then 
whisper  it  in  her  ears  —  It  is  your  name,  madam. 
It  is  by  parting  with  that,  by  your  condescension  to 
be  for  ever  mine,  which  must  at  once  prevent  me 
from  being  the  most  miserable,  and  will  render  me 
the  happiest  of  mankind." 

[  142  ] 


WEDDING    PREPARATIONS 

Leonora,  covered  with  blushes,  and  with  as  angry 
a  look  as  she  could  possibly  put  on,  told  him,  "  That 
had  she  suspected  what  his  declaration  would  have 
been,  he  should  not  have  decoyed  her  from  her 
company,  that  he  had  so  surprized  and  frighted 
her,  that  she  begged  him  to  convey  her  back  as  quick 
as  possible  ; "  which  he,  trembling  very  near  as  much 
as  herself,  did. 

"  More  fool  he,"  cried  Slipslop ;  "  it  is  a  sign  he 
knew  very  little  of  our  sect." — "Truly,  madam," 
said  Adams,  "  I  think  you  are  in  the  right :  I  should 
have  insisted  to  know  a  piece  of  her  mind,  when  I 
had  carried  matters  so  far."  But  Mrs.  Grave-airs 
desired  the  lady  to  omit  all  such  fulsome  stuff  in  her 
story,  for  that  it  made  her  sick. 

Well  then,  madam,  to  be  as  concise  as  possible, 
said  the  lady,  many  weeks  had  not  passed  after  this 
interview  before  Horatio  and  Leonora  were  what 
they  call  on  a  good  footing  together.  All  ceremonies 
except  the  last  were  now  over ;  the  writings  were  now 
drawn,  and  everything  was  in  the  utmost  forward- 
ness preparative  to  the  putting  Horatio  in  possession 
of  all  his  wishes.  I  will,  if  you  please,  repeat  you  a 
letter  from  each  of  them,  which  I  have  got  by  heart, 
and  which  will  give  you  no  small  idea  of  their 
passion  on  both  sides. 

Mrs,  Grave-airs  objected  to  hearing  these  letters ; 
but  being  put  to  the  vote,  it  was  carried  against  her 

[  143  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

by  all  the  rest  in  the  coach  ;  parson  Adams  contend- 
ing for  it  with  the  utmost  vehemence. 

Horatio  to  Leonora. 

"  How  vain,  most  adorable  creature,  is  the  pursuit 
of  pleasure  in  the  absence  of  an  object  to  which  the 
mind  is  entirely  devoted,  unless  it  have  some  relation 
to  that  object !  I  was  last  night  condemned  to  the 
society  of  men  of  wit  and  learning,  which,  however 
agreeable  it  might  have  formerly  been  to  me,  now  only 
gave  me  a  suspicion  that  they  imputed  my  absence  in 
conversation  to  the  true  cause.  For  which  reason, 
when  your  engagements  forbid  me  the  ecstatic  happi- 
ness of  seeing  you,  I  am  always  desirous  to  be  alone  ; 
since  my  sentiments  for  Leonora  are  so  delicate,  that  I 
cannot  bear  the  apprehension  of  another's  prying  into 
those  delightful  endearments  with  which  the  warm 
imagination  of  a  lover  will  sometimes  indulge  him,  and 
which  I  suspect  my  eyes  then  betray.  To  fear  this 
discovery  of  our  thoughts  may  perhaps  appear  too  ridi- 
culous a  nicety  to  minds  not  susceptible  of  all  the 
tendernesses  of  this  delicate  passion.  And  surely  we 
shall  suspect  there  are  few  such,  when  we  consider  that 
it  requires  every  human  vii-tue  to  exert  itself  in  its  full 
extent ;  since  the  beloved,  whose  happiness  it  ultimately 
respects,  may  give  us  charming  opportunities  of  being 
brave  in  her  defence,  generous  to  her  wants,  com- 
passionate to  her  afflictions,  grateful  to  her  kindness ; 
and  in  the  same  manner,  of  exercising  every  other 
virtue,  which  he  who  would  not  do  to  any  degree, 
and  that  with  the  utmost  rapture,  can  never  deserve 
the  name  of  a  lover.      It  is,  therefore,  with  a  view  to 

[  144] 


LEONORA'S    LETTER 

the  delicate  modesty  of  your  mind  that  I  cultivate  it  so 
purely  in  my  own ;  and  it  is  that  which  will  sufficiently 
suggest  to  you  the  uneasiness  I  bear  from  those  liberties^ 
which  men  to  whom  the  world  allow  politeness  will 
sometimes  give  themselves  on  these  occasions. 

"  Can  I  tell  you  with  what  eagerness  I  expect  the 
arrival  of  that  blest  day,  when  I  shall  experience  the 
falsehood  of  a  common  assertion,  that  the  greatest 
human  happiness  consists  in  hope  ?  A  doctrine  which 
no  person  had  ever  stronger  reason  to  believe  than  my- 
self at  present,  since  none  ever  tasted  such  bliss  as  fires 
my  bosom  with  the  thoughts  of  spending  my  future 
days  with  such  a  companion,  and  that  every  action  of 
my  life  will  have  the  glorious  satisfaction  of  conduc- 
ing to  your  happiness." 

Leonora  to  Horatio.^ 

"  The  refinement  of  your  mind  has  been  so  e\idently 
proved  by  every  word  and  action  ever  since  I  had  the 
first  pleasure  of  knowing  you,  that  I  thought  it  im- 
possible my  good  opinion  of  Horatio  could  have  been 
heightened  to  any  additional  proof  of  merit.  This  very 
thought  was  my  amusement  when  I  received  your  last 
letter,  which,  when  I  opened,  I  confess  I  was  surprized 
to  find  the  deUcate  sentiments  expressed  there  so  far 
exceeding  what  I  thought  could  come  even  from  you 
(although  I  know  all  the  generous  principles  human 
nature  is  capable  of  are  centred  in  your  breast),  that 
words  cannot  paint  what  I  feel  on  the  reflection  that 

1  This  letter  was  written  by  a  young  lady  on  reading  the 
former. 

▼ot.  I.  — 10  [  145  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

my   happiness   shall  be  the  ultimate  end  of  all   your 
actions. 

"  Oh,  Horatio  !  what  a  life  must  that  be,  where  the 
meanest  domestic  cares  are  sweetened  by  the  pleasing 
consideration  that  the  man  on  earth  who  best  deserves, 
and  to  whom  you  are  most  inchned  to  give  your  affec- 
tions, is  to  reap  either  profit  or  pleasure  from  all  you  do  ! 
In  such  a  case  toils  must  be  turned  into  diversions,  and 
nothing  but  the  unavoidable  inconveniences  of  life  can 
make  us  remember  that  we  are  mortal. 

"  If  the  solitary  turn  of  your  thoughts,  and  the  desire 
of  keeping  them  undiscovered,  makes  even  the  conver- 
sation of  men  of  wit  and  learning  tedious  to  you,  what 
anxious  hours  must  I  spend,  who  am  condemned  by 
custom  to  the  conversation  of  women,  whose  natural 
curiosity  leads  them  to  pry  into  all  my  thoughts,  and 
whose  envy  can  never  suffer  Hoi'atio's  heart  to  be  pos- 
sessed by  any  one,  without  forcing  them  into  malicious' 
designs  against  the  person  who  is  so  happy  as  to  possess 
it !  But,  indeed,  if  ever  envy  can  possibly  have  any 
excuse,  or  even  alleviation,  it  is  in  this  case,  where  the 
good  is  so  great,  and  it  must  be  equally  natural  to  all  to 
wish  it  for  themselves ;  nor  am  I  ashamed  to  own  it : 
and  to  your  merit,  Horatio,  I  am  obliged,  that  prevents 
my  being  in  that  most  uneasy  of  all  the  situations  I  can 
figure  in  my  imagination,  of  being  led  by  inclination 
to  love  the  person  whom  my  own  judgment  forces  me 
to  condemn." 

Matters  were  in  so  great  forwardness  between 
this  fond  couple,  that  the  day  was  fixed  for  their 
marriage,  and  was  now  within  a  fortnight,  when  the 

[146] 


HORATIO    AT    THE    SESSIONS 

sessions  chanced  to  be  held  for  that  county  in  a  town 
about  twenty  miles'  distance  from  that  which  is  the 
scene  of  our  story.  It  seems,  it  is  usual  for  the 
young  gentlemen  of  the  bar  to  repair  to  these  ses- 
sions, not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  profit  as  to  show 
their  parts  and  learn  the  law  of  the  justices  of  peace  ; 
for  which  purpose  one  of  the  wisest  and  gravest  of 
all  the  justices  is  appointed  speaker,  or  chairman, 
as  they  modestly  call  it,  and  he  reads  them  a  lecture, 
and  instructs  them  in  the  true  knowledge  of  the 
law. 

"You  are  here  guilty  of  a  little  mistake,"  says 
Adams,  "  which,  if  you  please,  I  will  correct :  I  have 
attended  at  one  of  these  quarter-sessions,  where  I 
observed  the  counsel  taught  the  justices,  instead  of 
learning  anything  of  them." 

It  is  not  very  material,  said  the  lady.  Hither  re- 
paired Horatio,  who,  as  he  hoped  by  his  profession 
to  advance  his  fortune,  which  was  not  at  present  very 
large,  for  the  sake  of  his  dear  Leonora,  he  resolved 
to  spare  no  pains,  nor  lose  any  opportunity  of  im- 
proving or  advancing  himself  in  it. 

The  same  afternoon  in  which  he  left  the  town,  as 
Leonora  stood  at  her  window,  a  coach  and  six  passed 
by,  which  she  declared  to  be  the  completest,  genteel- 
est,  prettiest  equipage  she  ever  saw;  adding  these 
remarkable  words,  "Oh,  I  am  in  love  with  that 
equipage ! "    which,   though   her   friend  Florella   at 

[147  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

that   time  did  not  greatly   regard,  she  hath  since 
remembered. 

In  the  evening  an  assembly  was  held,  which  Leonora 
honoured  with  her  company ;  but  intended  to  pay 
her  dear  Horatio  the  compliment  of  refusing  to  dance 
in  his  absence. 

Oh,  why  have  not  women  as  good  resolution  to 
maintain  their  vows  as  they  have  often  good  inclina- 
tions in  making  them ! 

The  gentleman  who  owned  the  coach  and  six  came 
to  the  assembly.  His  clothes  were  as  remarkably 
fine  as  his  equipage  could  be.  He  soon  attracted 
the  eyes  of  the  company  ;  all  the  smarts,  all  the  silk 
waistcoats  with  silver  and  gold  edgings,  were  eclipsed 
in  an  instant. 

"  Madam,"  said  Adams,  "  if  it  be  not  impertinent, 
I  should  be  glad  to  know  how  this  gentleman  was 
drest." 

Sir,  answered  the  lady,  I  have  been  told  he  had  on 
a  cut  velvet  coat  of  a  cinnamon  colour,  lined  with  a 
pink  satten,  embroidered  all  over  with  gold  ;  his 
waistcoat,  which  was  cloth  of  silver,  was  embroidered 
with  gold  likewise.  I  cannot  be  particular  as  to  the 
rest  of  his  dress  ;  but  it  was  all  in  the  French  fashion, 
for  Bellarmine  (that  was  his  name)  was  just  arrived 
from  Paris. 

This  fine  figure  did  not  more  entirely  engage  the 
eyes  of  every  lady  in  the  assembly  than  Leonora  did 

[  148  J 


LEONORA    AT    THE    ASSEMBLY 

his.  He  had  scarce  beheld  her,  but  he  stood  motion- 
less and  fixed  as  a  statue,  or  at  least  would  have  done 
so  if  good  breeding  had  permitted  him.  However, 
he  carried  it  so  far  before  he  had  power  to  correct 
himself,  that  every  person  in  the  room  easily  dis- 
covered where  his  admiration  was  settled.  The  other 
ladies  began  to  single  out  their  former  partners,  all 
perceiving  who  would  be  Bellarmine's  choice ;  which 
they  however  endeavoured,  by  all  possible  means,  to 
prevent :  many  of  them  saying  to  Leonora,  "  O 
madam  !  I  suppose  we  shan't  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  dance  to-night ; '"  and  then  crying  out,  in 
Bellarmine"'s  hearing,  "  Oh  !  Leonora  will  not  dance, 
I  assure  you  :  her  partner  is  not  here."  One  mali- 
ciously attempted  to  prevent  her,  by  sending  a  dis- 
agreeable fellow  to  ask  her,  that  so  she  might  be 
obliged  either  to  dance  with  him,  or  sit  down  ;  but 
this  scheme  proved  abortive. 

Leonora  saw  herself  admired  by  the  fine  stranger, 
and  envied  by  every  woman  present.  Her  little  heart 
began  to  flutter  within  her,  and  her  head  was  agi- 
tated with  a  convulsive  motion  :  she  seemed  as  if  she 
would  speak  to  several  of  her  acquaintance,  but  had 
nothing  to  say ;  for,  as  she  would  not  mention  her 
present  triumph,  so  she  could  not  disengage  her 
thoughts  one  moment  from  the  contemplation  of  it. 
She  had  never  tasted  anything  like  this  happiness. 
She  had  before  known  what  it  was  to  torment  a  single 

[149] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

woman ;  but  to  be  hated  and  secretly  cursed  by  a 
whole  assembly  was  a  joy  reserved  for  this  blessed 
moment.  As  this  vast  profusion  of  extasy  had  con- 
founded her  understanding,  so  there  was  nothing  so 
foolish  as  her  behaviour :  she  played  a  thousand 
childish  tricks,  distorted  her  person  into  several 
shapes,  and  her  face  into  several  laughs,  without  any 
reason.  In  a  word,  her  carriage  was  as  absurd  as  her 
desires,  which  were  to  affect  an  insensibility  of  the 
stranger's  admiration,  and  at  the  same  time  a  triumph, 
from  that  admiration,  over  every  woman  in  the  room. 

In  this  temper  of  mine,  Bellarmine,  having  inquii'ed 
who  she  was,  advanced  to  her,  and  with  a  low  bow 
begged  the  honour  of  dancing  with  her,  which  she, 
with  as  low  a  curtesy,  immediately  granted.  She 
danced  with  him  all  night,  and  enjoyed,  perhaps,  the 
highest  pleasure  that  she  was  capable  of  feeling. 

At  these  words,  Adams  fetched  a  deep  groan, 
which  frighted  the  ladies,  who  told  him,  "They 
hoped  he  was  not  ill."  He  answered,  "  He  groaned 
only  for  the  folly  of  Leonora." 

Leonora  retired  (continued  the  lady)  about  six  in 
the  morning,  but  not  to  rest.  She  tumbled  and 
tossed  in  her  bed,  with  very  short  intervals  of  sleep, 
and  those  entirely  filled  with  dreams  of  the  equipage 
and  fine  clothes  she  had  seen,  and  the  balls,  operas, 
and  ridottos,  which  had  been  the  subject  of  their 
conversation. 

[  160  ] 


BELLARMINE'S    SUCCESS 

In  the  afternoon,  Bellarniine,  in  the  dear  coach 
and  six,  came  to  wait  on  her.  He  was  indeed 
charmed  with  her  person,  and  was,  on  inquiry,  so 
well  pleased  with  the  circumstances  of  her  father 
(for  he  himself,  notwithstanding  all  his  finery,  was 
not  quite  so  rich  as  a  Croesus  or  an  Attains).  — 
"  Attains,"  says  Mr.  Adams  :  "  but  pray  how  came 
you  acquainted  with  these  names  ? "  The  lady 
smiled  at  the  question,  and  proceeded.  He  was  so 
pleased,  I  say,  that  he  resolved  to  make  his  addresses 
to  her  directly.  He  did  so  accordingly,  and  that 
with  so  much  warmth  and  briskness,  that  he  quickly 
baffled  her  weak  repulses,  and  obliged  the  lady  to 
refer  him  to  her  father,  who,  she  knew,  would  quickly 
declare  in  favour  of  a  coach  and  six. 

Thus  what  Horatio  had  by  sighs  and  tears,  love 
and  tenderness,  been  so  long  obtaining,  the  French- 
English  Bellarmine  with  gaiety  and  gallantry  pos- 
sessed himself  of  in  an  instant.  In  other  words, 
what  modesty  had  employed  a  full  year  in  raising, 
impudence  demolished  in  twenty-four  hours. 

Here  Adams  groaned  a  second  time ;  but  the 
ladies,  who  began  to  smoke  him,  took  no  notice. 

From  the  opening  of  the  assembly  till  the  end  of 
Bellarmine's  visit,  Leonora  had  scarce  once  thought 
of  Horatio ;  but  he  now  began,  though  an  unwel- 
come guest,  to  enter  into  her  mind.  She  wished  she 
had  seen  the  charming  Bellarmine  and  his  charming 

[151] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

equipage  before  matters  had  gone  so  far.  "  Yet 
why,"  says  she,  "  should  I  wish  to  have  seen  him 
before ;  or  what  signifies  it  that  I  have  seen  him  now  ? 
Is  not  Horatio  my  lover,  almost  my  husband  ?  Is 
he  not  as  handsome,  nay  handsomer  than  Bellarmine  ? 
Aye,  but  Bellarmine  is  the  genteeler,  and  the  finer 
man  ;  yes,  that  he  must  be  allowed.  Yes,  yes,  he  is 
that  certainly.  But  did  not  I,  no  longer  ago  than 
yesterday,  love  Horatio  more  than  all  the  world  ? 
Aye,  but  yesterday  I  had  not  seen  Bellarmine.  But 
doth  not  Horatio  doat  on  me,  and  may  he  not  in 
despair  break  his  heart  if  I  abandon  him  ?  Well, 
and  hath  not  Bellarmine  a  heart  to  break  too  ?  Yes, 
but  I  promised  Horatio  first ;  but  that  was  poor 
Bellarmine's  misfortune;  if  I  had  seen  him  first,  I 
should  certainly  have  preferred  him.  Did  not  the 
dear  creature  prefer  me  to  every  woman  in  the 
assembly,  when  every  she  was  laying  out  for  him  ? 
When  was  it  in  Horatio's  power  to  give  me  such  an 
instance  of  affection  ?  Can  he  give  me  an  equipage, 
or  any  of  those  things  which  Bellarmine  will  make 
me  mistress  of?  How  vast  is  the  difference  between 
being  the  wife  of  a  poor  counsellor  and  the  wife  of  one 
of  Bellarmine''s  fortune !  If  I  marry  Horatio,  I  shall 
triumph  over  no  more  than  one  rival ;  but  by  marry- 
ing Bellarmine,  I  shall  be  the  envy  of  all  my  acquaint- 
ance. AVhat  happiness !  But  can  I  suffer  Horatio 
to  die  ?  for  he  hath  sworn  he  cannot  survive  my  loss  : 

[  152  ] 


THE    AUNT'S    ADVICE 

but  perhaps  he  may  not  die :  if  he  should,  can  I 
prevent  it  ?  Must  I  sacrifice  myself  to  him  ?  besides, 
Bellarmine  may  be  as  miserable  for  me  too."  She 
was  thus  arguing  with  herself,  when  some  young 
ladies  called  her  to  the  walks,  and  a  little  relieved 
her  anxiety  for  the  present. 

The  next  morning  Bellarmine  breakfasted  with  her 
in  presence  of  her  aunt,  whom  he  sufficiently  informed 
of  his  passion  for  Leonora.  He  was  no  sooner  with- 
drawn than  the  old  lady  began  to  advise  her  niece 
on  this  occasion.  "  You  see,  child,"  says  she,  "  what 
fortune  hath  thrown  in  your  way ;  and  I  hope  you 
will  not  withstand  your  own  preferment."  Leonora, 
sighing,  begged  her  not  to  mention  any  such  thing, 
when  she  knew  her  engagements  to  Horatio. 
"  Engagements  to  a  fig !  "  cried  the  aunt ;  "  you 
should  thank  Heaven  on  your  knees  that  you  have 
it  yet  in  your  power  to  break  them.  Will  any 
woman  hesitate  a  moment  whether  she  shall  ride  in 
a  coach  or  walk  on  foot  all  the  days  of  her  life  ? 
But  Bellarmine  drives  six,  and  Horatio  not  even  a 
pair."  — "  Yes,  but,  madam,  what  will  the  world 
say  ?  "  answered  Leonora  :  "  will  not  they  condemn 
me  ? "  — "  The  world  is  always  on  the  side  of  pru- 
dence," cries  the  aunt,  "  and  would  surely  condemn 
you  if  you  sacrificed  your  interest  to  any  motive 
whatever.  Oh !  I  know  the  world  very  well ;  and 
you  shew  your  ignorance,  my  dear,  by  your  objection. 

[153] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

O"*  my  conscience !  the  world  is  wiser.  I  have  lived 
longer  in  it  than  you ;  and  I  assure  you  there  is  not 
anything  worth  our  regard  besides  money  ;  nor  did 
I  ever  know  one  person  who  married  from  other 
considerations,  who  did  not  afterwards  heartily  re- 
pent it.  Besides,  if  we  examine  the  two  men,  can 
you  prefer  a  sneaking  fellow,  who  hath  been  bred  at 
the  university,  to  a  fine  gentleman  just  come  from 
his  travels.  All  the  world  must  allow  Bellarmine  to 
be  a  fine  gentleman,  positively  a  fine  gentleman,  and 
a  handsome  man."  —  "  Perhaps,  madam,  I  should  not 
doubt,  if  I  knew  how  to  be  handsomely  off  with  the 
other.""  —  "  Oh !  leave  that  to  me,"  says  the  aunt. 
"  You  know  your  father  hath  not  been  acquainted  with 
the  affair.  Indeed,  for  my  part  I  thought  it  might  do 
well  enough,  not  dreaming  of  such  an  offer ;  but  I  '11 
disengage  you  :  leave  me  to  give  the  fellow  an  answer. 
I  warrant  you  shall  have  no  farther  trouble." 

Leonora  was  at  length  satisfied  with  her  aunfs 
reasoning;  and  Bellarmine  supping  with  her  that 
evening,  it  was  agreed  he  should  the  next  morning 
go  to  her  father  and  propose  the  match,  which  she 
consented  should  be  consummated  at  his  return. 

The  aunt  retired  soon  after  supper  ;  and,  the  lovers 
being  left  together,  Bellarmine  began  in  the  follow- 
ing manner  :  "  Yes,  madam  ;  this  coat,  I  assure  you, 
was  made  at  Paris,  and  I  defy  the  best  English 
taylor  even  to  imitate  it.     There  is  not  one  of  them 

[  154] 


HORATIO'S    RETURN 

can  cut,  madam  ;  they  can't  cut.  If  you  observe  how 
this  skirt  is  turned,  and  this  sleeve  :  a  clumsy  English 
rascal  can  do  nothing  like  it.  Pray,  how  do  you  like 
my  liveries  .'* ""  Leonora  answered,  "  She  thought 
them  very  pretty."  — "  All  French,"  says  he,  "  I 
assure  you,  except  the  greatcoats  ;  I  never  trust  any- 
thing more  than  a  greatcoat  to  an  Englishman. 
You  know  one  must  encourage  our  own  people  what 
one  can,  especially  as,  before  I  had  a  place,  I  was  in 
the  country  interest,  he,  he,  he !  But  for  myself,  I 
would  see  the  dirty  island  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
rather  than  wear  a  single  rag  of  English  work  about 
me :  and  I  am  sure,  after  you  have  made  one  tour  to 
Paris,  you  will  be  of  the  same  opinion  with  regard 
to  your  own  clothes.  You  can't  conceive  what  an 
addition  a  French  dress  would  be  to  your  beauty  ;  I 
positively  assure  you,  at  the  first  opera  I  saw  since 
I  came  over,  I  mistook  the  English  ladies  for  chamber- 
maids, he,  he,  he  !  " 

With  such  sort  of  polite  discourse  did  the  gay 
Bellarmine  entertain  his  beloved  Leonora,  when  the 
door  opened  on  a  sudden,  and  Horatio  entered  the 
room.  Here  't  is  impossible  to  express  the  surprize 
of  Leonora. 

"  Poor  woman  ! "  says  Mrs.  Slipslop,  "  what  a 
terrible  quandary  she  must  be  in  !  "  —  "  Not  at  all," 
says  Mrs.  Grave-airs  ;  "  such  sluts  can  never  be  con- 
founded." —  "  She  must  have  then  more  than  Corin- 

[155] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

thian  assurance,"  said  Adams  ;  "  aye,  more  than  Lais 
herself." 

A  long  silence,  continued  the  lady,  prevailed  in 
the  whole  company.  If  the  familiar  entrance  of 
Horatio  struck  the  greatest  astonishment  into  Bel- 
larmine,  the  unexpected  presence  of  Bellarmine  no 
less  surprized  Horatio.  At  length  Leonora,  collect- 
ing all  the  spirit  she  was  mistress  of,  addressed  her- 
self to  the  latter,  and  pretended  to  wonder  at  the 
reason  of  so  late  a  visit.  "  I  should  indeed,"  an- 
swered he,  "  have  made  some  apology  for  disturbing 
you  at  this  hour,  had  not  my  finding  you  in  company 
assured  me  I  do  not  break  in  upon  your  repose." 
Bellarmine  rose  from  his  chair,  traversed  the 
room  in  a  minuet  step,  and  hummed  an  opera  tune, 
while  Horatio,  advancing  to  Leonora,  asked  her  in 
a  whisper  if  that  gentleman  was  not  a  relation  of 
hers ;  to  which  she  answered  with  a  smile,  or  rather 
sneer,  "  No,  he  is  no  relation  of  mine  yet ; "  adding, 
"  she  could  not  guess  the  meaning  of  his  question." 
Horatio  told  her  softly,  "  It  did  not  arise  from  jeal- 
ousy." — "  Jealousy !  I  assure  you,  it  would  be 
very  strange  in  a  common  acquaintance  to  give  him- 
self any  of  those  airs."  These  words  a  little  surprized 
Horatio  ;  but,  before  he  had  time  to  answer,  Bellar- 
mine danced  up  to  the  lady  and  told  her,  "  He  feared 
he  interrupted  some  business  between  her  and  the 
gentleman."  —  "I  can  have  no  business,"  said  she, 

[156] 


A    COLD    RECEPTION 

"  with  the  gentleman,  nor  any  other,  which  need  be 
any  secret  to  you." 

"  You  '11  pardon  me,"  said  Horatio,  "  if  I  desire  to 
know  who  this  gentleman  is  who  is  to  be  entrusted 
with  all  our  secrets."  —  "  You  '11  know  soon  enough," 
cries  Leonora ;  "  but  I  can't  guess  what  secrets  can 
ever  pass  between  us  of  such  mighty  consequence." 
— "  No,  madam  !  "  cries  Horatio  ;  "  I  am  sure  you 
would  not  have  me  understand  you  in  earnest."  — 
"'Tis  indifferent  to  me,"  says  she,  "how  you  under- 
stand me  ;  but  I  think  so  unseasonable  a  visit  is  diffi- 
cult to  be  understood  at  all,  at  least  when  people 
find  one  engaged :  though  one's  servants  do  not  deny 
one,  one  may  expect  a  well-bred  person  should  soon 
take  the  hint."  "  Madam,"  said  Horatio,  "  I  did  not 
imagine  any  engagement  with  a  stranger,  as  it  seems 
this  gentleman  is,  would  have  made  my  visit  imperti- 
nent, or  that  any  such  ceremonies  were  to  be  pre- 
served between  persons  in  our  situation."  "  Sure  you 
are  in  a  dream,"  says  she,  "or  would  persuade  me 
that  I  am  in  one.  I  know  no  pretensions  a  common 
acquaintance  can  have  to  lay  aside  the  ceremonies  of 
good  breeding."  "  Sure,"  said  he, "  I  am  in  a  dream  ; 
for  it  is  impossible  I  should  be  really  esteemed  a 
common  acquaintance  by  Leonora,  after  what  has 
passed  between  us  ? "  "  Passed  between  us  !  Do  you 
intend  to  affront  me  before  this  gentleman  ?  "  "  D — n 
me,  affront  the  lady,"  says  Bellarmine,  cocking  his 

[157] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

hat,  and  strutting  up  to  Horatio :  "  does  any  man 
dare  affront  this  ladv  before  me,  d — n  me  ? " 
"  Hark  'ee,  sir,"  says  Horatio,  "  I  would  advise  you  to 
lay  aside  that  fierce  air ;  for  I  am  mightily  deceived 
if  this  lady  has  not  a  violent  desire  to  get  your  wor- 
ship a  good  drubbing."  "  Sir,"  said  Bellarmine,  *'  I 
have  the  honour  to  be  her  protector  ;  and,  d — n  me, 
if  I  understand  your  meaning."  "  Sir,"  answered 
Horatio,  "  she  is  rather  your  protectress ;  but  give 
yourself  no  more  airs,  for  you  see  I  am  prepared  for 
you  "  (shaking  his  whip  at  him).  "  Oh  !  serviteur  tres 
humble^''  says  Bellarmine :  "  Je  vous  entend  parfait- 
ment  bien.''''  At  which  time  the  aunt,  who  had  heard 
of  Horatio's  visit,  entered  the  room,  and  soon,  satisfied 
all  his  doubts.  She  convinced  him  that  he  was  never 
more  awake  in  his  life,  and  that  nothing  more  extra- 
ordinary had  happened  in  his  three  days"*  absence 
than  a  small  alteration  in  the  affections  of  Leonora  ; 
who  now  burst  into  tears,  and  wondered  what  rea- 
son she  had  given  him  to  use  her  in  so  barbarous  a 
manner.  Horatio  desired  Bellarmine  to  withdraw 
with  him  ;  but  the  ladies  prevented  it  by  laying 
violent  hands  on  the  latter  ;  upon  which  the  former 
took  his  leave  without  any  great  ceremony,  and  de- 
parted, leaving  the  lady  with  his  rival  to  consult  for 
his  safety,  which  Leonora  feared  her  indiscretion 
might  have  endangered ;  but  the  aunt  comforted  her 
with  assurances  that  Horatio  would  not  venture  his 

[158] 


BAD    NEWS 

person  against  so  accomplished  a  cavalier  as  Bellar- 
niine,  and  that,  being  a  lawyer,  he  would  seek  revenge 
in  his  own  way,  and  the  most  they  had  to  apprehend 
from  him  was  an  action. 

They  at  length  therefore  agreed  to  permit  Bellar- 
mine  to  retire  to  his  lodgings,  having  first  settled  all 
matters  relating  to  the  journey  which  he  was  to 
undertake  in  the  morning,  and  their  preparations 
for   the   nuptials   at    his   return. 

But,  alas !  as  wise  men  have  observed,  the  seat  of 
valour  is  not  the  countenance  ;  and  many  a  grave  and 
plain  man  will,  on  a  just  provocation,  betake  himself 
to  that  mischievous  metal,  cold  iron  ;  while  men  of  a 
fiercer  brow,  and  sometimes  with  that  emblem  of 
courage,  a  cockade,  will  more  prudently  decline  it. 

Leonora  was  waked  in  the  morning,  from  a  vision- 
ary coach  and  six,  with  the  dismal  account  that  Bel- 
larmine  was  run  through  the  body  by  Horatio  ;  that 
he  lay  languishing  at  an  inn,  and  the  surgeons  had 
declared  the  wound  mortal.  She  immediately  leaped 
out  of  the  bed,  danced  about  the  room  in  a  frantic 
manner,  tore  her  hair  and  beat  her  breast  in  all  the 
agonies  of  despair ;  in  which  sad  condition  her  aunt, 
who  likewise  arose  at  the  news,  found  her.  The  good 
old  lady  applied  her  utmost  art  to  comfort  her  niece. 
She  told  her,  "  While  there  was  life  there  was  hope  ; 
but  that  if  he  should  die  her  affliction  would  be  of  no 
service  to  Bellarmine,  and  would  only  expose  herself 

[159] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

which  might,  probably,  keep  lier  some  time  without 
any  future  offer  ;  that,  as  matters  had  happened,  her 
wisest  way  would  be  to  think  no  more  of  Bellarmine, 
but  to  endeavour  to  regain  the  affections  of  Horatio.'" 
"  Speak  not  to  me,"  cried  the  disconsolate  Leonora  ; 
"  is  it  not  owing  to  me  that  poor  Bellarmine  has  lost 
his  life  ?  Have  not  these  cursed  charms  (at  which 
words  she  looked  steadfastly  in  the  glass)  been  the 
ruin  of  the  most  charming  man  of  this  age  ?  Can  I 
ever  bear  to  contemplate  my  own  face  again  (with  her 
eyes  still  fixed  on  the  glass)  ?  Am  I  not  the  mur- 
deress of  the  finest  gentleman  ?  No  other  woman  in 
the  town  could  have  made  any  impression  on  him,""' 
"  Never  think  of  things  past,"  cries  the  aunt :  "  think 
of  regaining  the  affections  of  Horatio."  "  What 
reason,"  said  the  niece,  "  have  I  to  hope  he  would  for- 
give me  ?  No,  I  have  lost  him  as  well  as  the  other, 
and  it  was  your  wicked  advice  which  was  the  occasion 
of  all ;  you  seduced  me,  contrary  to  my  inclinations, 
to  abandon  poor  Horatio  (at  which  words  she  burst 
into  tears) ;  you  prevailed  upon  me,  whether  I  would 
or  no,  to  give  up  my  affections  for  him  ;  had  it  not 
been  for  you,  Bellarmine  never  would  have  entered 
into  my  thoughts  ;  had  not  his  addresses  been  backed 
by  your  persuasions,  they  never  would  have  made 
any  impression  on  me ;  I  should  have  defied  all  the 
fortune  and  equipage  in  the  world ;  but  it  was  you, 
it  was   you,  who  got  the  better  of  my   youth  and 

[  160  ] 


BELLARMINE^S    LETTER 


simplicity,  and  forced  me  to  lose  my  dear  Horatio 
for  ever." 

The  aunt  was  almost  borne  down  with  this  torrent 
of  words  ;  she,  however,  rallied  all  the  strength  she 
could,  and,  drawing  her  mouth  up  in  a  purse,  began  : 
"  I  am  not  surprized,  niece,  at  this  ingratitude. 
Those  who  advise  young  women  for  their  interest, 
must  always  expect  such  a  return  :  I  am  convinced 
my  brother  will  thank  me  for  breaking  off  your  match 
with  Horatio,  at  any  rate."  —  "  That  may  not  be  in 
your  power  yet,""  answered  Leonora,  "  though  it  is 
very  ungrateful  in  you  to  desire  or  attempt  it,  after 
the  presents  you  have  received  from  him."  (For 
indeed  true  it  is,  that  many  presents,  and  some  pretty 
valuable  ones,  had  passed  from  Horatio  to  the  old 
lady ;  but  as  true  it  is,  that  Bellarmine,  when  he 
breakfasted  with  her  and  her  niece,  had  complimented 
her  with  a  brilliant  from  his  finger,  of  much  greater 
value  than  all  she  had  touched  of  the  other.) 

The  aunt's  gall  was  on  float  to  reply,  when  a  servant 
brought  a  letter  into  the  room,  which  Leonora,  hear- 
ing it  came  from  Bellarmine,  with  great  eagerness 
opened,  and  read  as   follows :  — 

"  Most  divine  Creature,  —  The  wound  which  I  fear 
you  have  heard  I  received  from  my  rival  is  not  like  to 
be  so  fatal  as  those  shot  into  my  heart  which  have  been 
fired  from  your  eyes,  tout  brilliant.  Those  are  the  only 
cannons  by  which  I  am  to  fall ;  for  my  surgeon  gives  ' 
VOL.  I. -11  [161] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

me  hopes  of  being  soon  able  to  attend  your  ruelle  ;  till 
when,  unless  you  would  do  me  an  honour  which  I  have 
scarce  the  hardiesse  to  think  of,  your  absence  will  be 
the  greatest  anguish  which  can  be  felt  by, 

Madam, 
Avec  toute  le  respecte  in  the  world. 

Your  most  obedient,  most  absolute 
Devote, 

"  Bellarmine." 

As  soon  as  Leonora  perceived  such  hopes  of 
Bellarmine"'s  recovery,  and  that  the  gossip  Fame  had, 
according  to  custom,  so  enlarged  his  danger,  she 
presently  abandoned  all  further  thoughts  of  Horatio, 
and  was  soon  reconciled  to  her  aunt,  who  received  her 
again  into  favour,  with  a  more  Christian  forgiveness 
than  we  generally  meet  with.  Indeed,  it  is  possible 
she  might  be  a  little  alarmed  at  the  hints  which  her 
niece  had  given  her  concerning  the  presents.  She 
might  apprehend  such  rumours,  should  they  get 
abroad,  might  injure  a  reputation  which,  by  fre- 
quenting church  twice  a  day,  and  preserving  the 
utmost  rigour  and  strictness  in  her  countenance  and 
behaviour  for  many  years,  she  had  established. 

Leonora's  passion  returned  now  for  Bellarmine  with 
greater  force,  after  its  small  relaxation,  than  ever. 
She  proposed  to  her  aunt  to  make  him  a  visit  in 
his  confinement,  which  the  old  lady,  with  great 
and  commendable  prudence,  advised  her  to  decline : 

[162] 


THE    TALE    INTERRUPTED 

"  For,"  says  she,  "  should  any  accident  intervene  to 
prevent  your  intended  match,  too  forward  a  be- 
haviour with  this  lover  may  injure  you  in  the  eyes 
of  others.  Every  woman,  till  she  is  married,  ought 
to  consider  of,  and  provide  against,  the  possibility  of 
the  affair's  breaking  off."  Leonora  said,  '"  She  should 
be  indifferent  to  whatever  might  happen  in  such  a 
case  ;  for  she  had  now  so  absolutely  placed  her  affec- 
tions on  this  dear  man  (so  she  called  him),  that,  if  it 
was  her  misfortune  to  lose  him,  she  should  for  ever 
abandon  all  thoughts  of  mankind."  She,  therefore, 
resolved  to  visit  him,  notwithstanding  all  the  prudent 
advice  of  her  aunt  to  the  contrary,  and  that  very 
afternoon  executed  her  resolution. 

The  lady  was  proceeding  in  her  story,  when  the 
coach  drove  into  the  inn  where  the  company  were 
to  dine,  sorely  to  the  dissatisfaction  of  Mr.  Adams, 
whose  ears  were  the  most  hungry  part  about  him  ;  he 
being,  as  the  reader  may  perhaps  guess,  of  an  insa- 
tiable curiosity,  and  heartily  desirous  of  hearing  the 
end  of  this  amour,  though  he  professed  he  could 
scarce  wish  success  to  a  lady  of  so  inconstant  a 
disposition. 


[163 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

A  DREADFUL  QUARREL  WHICH  HAPPENED  AT  THE  INN 
WHERE  THE  COMPANY  DINED,  WITH  ITS  BLOODY 
CONSEQUENCES   TO    MR.    ADAMS. 

^  S  soon  as  the  passengers  had  ahghted  from 
/  ^^  the  coach,  Mr.  Adams,  as  was  his  cus- 
/  ^k  tom,  made  directly  to  the  kitchen,  where 
he  found  Joseph  sitting  by  the  fire,  and 
the  hostess  anointing  his  leg ;  for  the  horse  which 
Mr,  Adams  had  borrowed  of  his  clerk  had  so  violent 
a  propensity  to  kneeling,  that  one  would  have 
thought  it  had  been  his  trade,  as  well  as  his  master's  ; 
nor  would  he  always  give  any  notice  of  such  his 
intention  ;  he  was  often  found  on  his  knees  when  the 
rider  least  expected  it.  This  foible,  however,  was  of 
no  great  inconvenience  to  the  parson,  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  it ;  and,  as  his  legs  almost  touched  the 
ground  when  he  bestrode  the  beast,  had  but  a  little 
way  to  fall,  and  threw  himself  forward  on  such  occa- 
sions with  so  much  dexterity  that  he  never  received 
any  mischief;  the  horse  and  he  frequently  rolling 
many  paces'  distance,  and  afterwards  both  getting  up 
and  meeting  as  good  friends  as  ever. 

[164] 


JOSEPH'S    FALL 

Poor  Joseph,  who  had  not  been  used  to  such  kind 
of  cattle,  though  an  excellent  horseman,  did  not  so 
happily  disengage  himself ;  but,  falling  with  his  leg 
under  the  beast,  received  a  violent  contusion,  to 
which  the  good  woman  was,  as  we  have  said,  apply- 
ing a  warm  hand,  with  some  camphorated  spirits, 
just  at  the  time  when  the  parson  entered  the  kitchen. 

He  had  scarce  expressed  his  concern  for  Joseph's 
misfortune  before  the  host  likewise  entered.  He  was 
by  no  means  of  Mr.  Tow-wouse's  gentle  disposition  ; 
and  was,  indeed,  perfect  master  of  his  house,  and 
everything  in  it  but  his  guests. 

This  surly  fellow,  who  always  proportioned  his 
respect  to  the  appearance  of  a  traveller,  from  "  God 
bless  your  honour,"  downi  to  plain  "  Coming  pres- 
ently ,*'''  observing  his  wife  on  her  knees  to  a  footman, 
cried  out,  without  considering  his  circumstances, 
"  Wliat  a  pox  is  the  woman  about  ?  why  don't  you 
mind  the  company  in  the  coach  ?  Go  and  ask  them 
what  they  will  have  for  dinner.""  "  My  dear,"  says 
she,  "  you  know  they  can  have  nothing  but  what  is 
at  the  fire,  which  will  be  ready  presently  ;  and  really 
the  poor  young  man's  leg  is  very  much  bruised."  At 
which  words  she  fell  to  chafing  more  violently  than 
before :  the  bell  then  happening  to  ring,  he  damn'd 
his  wife,  and  bid  her  go  in  to  the  company,  and  not 
stand  rubbing  there  all  day,  for  he  did  not  believe 
the  young  fellow's  leg  was  so  bad  as  he  pretended  ; 

[  165  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

and  if  it  was,  within  twenty  miles  he  would  find  a 
surgeon  to  cut  it  off.  Upon  these  words,  Adams 
fetched  two  strides  across  the  room  ;  and  snapping 
his  fingers  over  his  head,  muttered  aloud.  He  would 
excommunicate  such  a  wretch  for  a  farthing,  for  he 
believed  the  devil  had  more  humanity.  These  words 
occasioned  a  dialogue  between  Adams  and  the  host, 
in  which  there  were  two  or  three  sharp  replies,  till 
Joseph  bade  the  latter  know  how  to  behave  himself 
to  his  betters.  At  which  the  host  (having  first 
strictly  surveyed  Adams)  scornfully  repeating  the 
word  "  betters,""  flew  into  a  rage,  and,  telling  Joseph 
he  was  as  able  to  walk  out  of  his  house  as  he  had  been 
to  walk  into  it,  offered  to  lay  violent  hands  on  him  ; 
which  perceiving,  Adams  dealt  him  so  sound  a  com- 
pliment over  his  face  with  his  fist,  that  the  blood 
immediately  gushed  out  of  his  nose  in  a  stream. 
The  host,  being  unwilling  to  be  outdone  in  courtesy, 
especially  by  a  person  of  Adams's  figure,  returned 
the  favour  with  so  much  gratitude,  that  the  par- 
son''s  nostrils  began  to  look  a  little  redder  than  usual. 
Upon  which  he  again  assailed  his  antagonist,  and 
with  another  stroke  laid  him  sprawling  on  the  floor. 
The  hostess,  who  was  a  better  wife  than  so  surly  a 
husband  deserved,  seeing  her  husband  all  bloody  and 
stretched  along,  hastened  presently  to  his  assistance, 
or  rather  to  revenge  the  blow,  which,  to  all  appear- 
ance, was  the  last  he  would  ever  receive  ;  when,  lo ! 

[166] 


A    QUARREL    AT    THE    INN 

a  pan  full  of  hog's  blood,  which  unluckily  stood  on 
the  dresser,  presented  itself  first  to  her  hands.     She 
seized  it  in  her  fury,  and  without  any  reflection,  dis- 
charged it  into  the  parson's  face ;  and  with  so  good 
an  aim,  that  much  the  greater  part  first  saluted  his 
countenance,  and  trickled  thence  in  so  large  a  cur- 
rent down  to  his  beard,  and  over  his  garments,  that 
a  more  horrible  spectacle  was  hardly  to  be  seen,  or 
even  imagined.     All  which  was  perceived   by  Mrs. 
Slipslop,  who  entered  the  kitchen  at  that   instant. 
This  good  gentlewoman,  not  being  of  a  temper  so 
extremely  cool  and  patient  as  perhaps  was  required 
to  ask  many  questions  on  this    occasion,  flew  with 
great  impetuosity  at    the  hostess's    cap,  which,  to- 
gether with  some  of  her  hair,  she  plucked  from  her 
head   in  a  moment,  giving  her,   at  the  same  time, 
several  hearty  cuffs  in  the  face  ;  which  by  frequent 
practice  on   the   inferior  servants,  she   had  learned 
an  excellent  knack  of  delivering  with  a  good  grace. 
Poor  Joseph  could  hardly  rise  from  his  chair;  the 
parson  was  employed  in  wiping  the  blood  from  his 
eyes,  which  had  entirely  blinded  him  ;  and  the  land- 
lord was  but  just  beginning  to  stir;  whilst  Mrs.  Slip- 
slop, holding  down  the  landlady's  face  with  her  left 
hand,  made  so  dexterous  an  use  of  her  right,  that  the 
poor  woman  began  to  roar,  in  a  key  which  alarmed 
all  the  company  in  the  inn. 

There  happened  to  be  in  the  inn,  at  this  time, 

[167] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

besides  the  ladies  who  arrived  in  the  stage-coach,  the 
two  gentlemen  who  were  present  at  Mr.  Tow-wouse's 
when  Joseph  was  detained  for  his  horse's  meat,  and 
whom  we  have  before  mentioned  to  have  stopt  at 
the  ale-house  with  Adams.  There  was  likewise  a 
gentleman  just  returned  from  his  travels  to  Italy  ; 
all  whom  the  horrid  outcry  of  murder  presently 
brought  into  the  kitchen,  where  the  several  com- 
batants were  found  in  the  postures  already  described. 
It  was  now  no  difficulty  to  put  an  end  to  the  fray, 
the  conquerors  being  satisfied  with  the  vengeance 
they  had  taken,  and  the  conquered  having  no  appe- 
tite to  renew  the  fight.  The  principal  figure,  and 
which  engaged  the  eyes  of  all,  was  Adams,  who  was 
all  over  covered  with  blood,  which  the  whole  com- 
pany concluded  to  be  his  own,  and  consequently 
imagined  him  no  longer  for  this  world.  But  the 
host,  who  had  now  recovered  from  his  blow,  and  was 
risen  from  the  ground,  soon  delivered  them  from 
this  apprehension,  by  damning  his  wife  for  wasting 
the  hog's  puddings,  and  telling  her  all  would  have 
been  very  well  if  she  had  not  intermeddled,  like 
a  b —  as  she  was ;  adding,  he  was  very  glad  the 
gentlewoman  had  paid  her,  though  not  half  what 
she  deserved.  The  poor  woman  had  indeed  fared 
much  the  worst ;  having,  besides  the  unmerciful  cuffs 
received,  lost  a  quantity  of  hair,  which  Mrs.  Slipslop 
in  triumph  held  in  her  left  hand. 

[168] 


THE    TRAVELLER'S    ADVICE 

The  traveller,  addressing  himself  to  Mrs.  Grave- 
airs,  desired  her  not  to  be  frightened ;  for  here  had 
been  only  a  little  boxing,  which  he  said,  to  their 
dlsgracia^  the  English  were  accicstomata  to :  adding, 
it  must  be,  however,  a  sight  somewhat  strange  to 
him,  who  was  just  come  from  Italy  ;  the  Italians  not 
being  addicted  to  the  ciiffardo^  but  bastonza,  says  he. 
He  then  went  up  to  Adams,  and  telling  him  he 
looked  like  the  ghost  of  Othello,  bid  him  not  shake 
his  gory  locks  at  him,  for  he  could  not  say  he  did  it. 
Adams  very  innocently  answered,  "  Sir,  I  am  far  from 
accusing  you."  He  then  returned  to  the  lady,  and 
cried,  "  I  find  the  bloody  gentleman  is  u7io  insipido 
del  nulla  senso.  Dammato  di  me,  if  I  have  seen  such 
a  spectacxilo  in  my  way  from  Viterbo." 

One  of  the  gentlemen  having  learnt  from  the  host 
the  occasion  of  this  bustle,  and  being  assured  by  him 
that  Adams  had  struck  the  first  blow,  whispered  in 
his  ear,  "  He  'd  warrant  he  would  recover."  —  "  Re- 
cover !  master,"  said  the  host,  smiling :  "  yes,  yes,  I 
am  not  afraid  of  dying  with  a  blow  or  two  neither ; 
I  am  not  such  a  chicken  as  that."  —  "  Pugh  ! "  said 
the  gentleman,  "  I  mean  you  w  ill  recover  damages 
in  that  action  which,  undoubtedly,  you  intend  to 
bring,  as  soon  as  a  writ  can  be  returned  from  Lon- 
don ;  for  you  look  like  a  man  of  too  much  spirit  and 
courage  to  suffer  any  one  to  beat  you  without  bring- 
ing your  action  against  him  :  he  must  be  a  scandalous 

[169] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

fellow  indeed  who  would  put  up  with  a  drubbing 
whilst  the  law  is  open  to  revenge  it ;  besides,  he  hath 
drawn  blood  from  you,  and  spoiled  your  coat ;  and 
the  jury  will  give  damages  for  that  too.  An  excel- 
lent new  coat  upon  my  word  ;  and  now  not  worth  a 
shilling !  I  don't  care,""  continued  he,  "  to  inter- 
meddle in  these  cases ;  but  you  have  a  right  to  my 
evidence ;  and  if  I  am  sworn,  I  must  speak  the  truth. 
I  saw  you  sprawling  on  the  floor,  and  blood  gushing 
from  your  nostrils.  You  may  take  your  own  opinion  ; 
but  was  I  in  your  circumstances,  every  drop  of  my 
blood  should  convey  an  ounce  of  gold  into  my  pocket : 
remember  I  don't  advise  you  to  go  to  law ;  but  if 
your  jury  were  Christians,  they  must  give  swinging 
damages.  That 's  all."  —  "  Master,"  cried  the  host, 
scratching  his  head,  "  I  have  no  stomach  to  law,  I 
thank  you.  I  have  seen  enough  of  that  in  the  parish, 
where  two  of  my  neighbours  have  been  at  law  about 
a  house,  till  they  have  both  lawed  themselves  into  a 
gaol."  At  which  words  he  turned  about,  and  began 
to  inquire  again  after  his  hog's  puddings  ;  nor  would 
it  probably  have  been  a  sufficient  excuse  for  his  wife, 
that  she  spilt  them  in  his  defence,  had  not  some  awe 
of  the  company,  especially  of  the  Italian  traveller, 
who  was  a  person  of  great  dignity,  withheld  his 
rage. 

Whilst  one  of  the  above-mentioned  gentlemen  was 
employed,  as  we  have  seen  him,  on  the  behalf  of  the 

[170] 


PEACE    RESTORED 

landlord,  the  other  was  no  less  hearty  on  the  side 
of  Mr.  Adams,  whom  he  advised  to  bring  his  action 
immediately.  He  said  the  assault  of  the  wife  was  in 
law  the  assault  of  the  husband,  for  they  were  but 
one  person  ;  and  he  was  liable  to  pay  damages,  which 
he  said  must  be  considerable,  where  so  bloody  a  dis- 
position appeared.  Adams  answered,  If  it  was  true 
that  they  were  but  one  person,  he  had  assaulted  the 
wife ;  for  he  was  sorry  to  own  he  had  struck  the 
husband  the  first  blow.  "  I  am  sorry  you  own  it 
too,"  cries  the  gentleman  ;  "  for  it  could  not  possibly 
appear  to  the  court ;  for  here  was  no  evidence  present 
but  the  lame  man  in  the  chair,  whom  I  suppose  to 
be  your  friend,  and  would  consequently  say  nothing 
but  what  made  for  you."  —  "  How,  sir,"  says  Adams, 
"  do  you  take  me  for  a  villain,  who  would  prosecute 
revenge  in  cold  blood,  and  use  unjustifiable  means  to 
obtain  it  ?  If  you  knew  me,  and  my  order,  I  should 
think  you  affronted  both."  At  the  word  order,  the 
gentleman  stared  (for  he  was  too  bloody  to  be  of 
any  modern  order  of  knights) ;  and,  turning  hastily 
about,  said,  "  Every  man  knew  his  own  business." 

Matters  being  now  composed,  the  company  retired 
to  their  several  apartments ;  the  two  gentlemen  con- 
gratulating each  other  on  the  success  of  their  good 
offices  in  procuring  a  perfect  reconciliation  between 
the  contending  parties ;  and  the  traveller  went  to 
his  repast,  crying,  "  As  the  Italian  poet  says  — 

[171] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

•  J6  VOX  very  well  que  tutta  e  face. 
So  send  up  dinner,  good  Boniface.'" 

The  coachman  began  now  to  grow  importunate  with 
his  passengers,  whose  entrance  into  the  coach  was 
retarded  by  Miss  Grave-airs  insisting,  against  the 
i-emonstrance  of  all  the  rest,  that  she  would  not 
admit  a  footman  into  the  coach  ;  for  poor  Joseph 
was  too  lame  to  mount  a  horse.  A  young  lady,  who 
was,  as  it  seems,  an  earPs  grand-daughter,  begged  it 
with  almost  tears  in  her  eyes.  Mr.  Adams  prayed, 
and  Mrs.  Slipslop  scolded  ;  but  all  to  no  purpose. 
She  said,  "She  would  not  demean  herself  to  ride 
with  a  footman  :  that  there  were  waggons  on  the 
road :  that  if  the  master  of  the  coach  desired  it, 
she  would  pay  for  two  places ;  but  would  suffer 
no  such  fellow  to  come  in."  —  "  Madam,"  says  Slip- 
slop, "  I  am  sure  no  one  can  refuse  another  coming 
into  a  stage-coach."  —  "I  don't  know,  madam,"  says 
the  lady  ;  "  I  am  not  much  used  to  stage-coaches  ;  I 
seldom  travel  in  them."  —  "  That  may  be,  madam," 
replied  Slipslop ;  "  very  good  people  do ;  and  some 
people's  betters,  for  aught  I  know."  Miss  Grave- 
airs  said,  "Some  folks  might  sometimes  give  their 
tongues  a  liberty,  to  some  people  that  were  their 
betters,  which  did  not  become  them  ;  for  her  part, 
she  was  not  used  to  converse  with  servants."  Slip- 
slop returned,  "  Some  people  kept  no  servants  to 
converse  with ;  for  her  part,  she  thanked  Heaven  she 

[  172  ] 


A    SMART    DIALOGUE 

lived  in  a  family  where  there  were  a  great  many,  and 
had  more  under  her  own  command  than  any  paultrv 
little  gentlewoman  in  the  kingdom."  Miss  Grave- 
airs  cried,  "  She  believed  her  mistress  would  not 
encourage  such  sauciness  to  her  betters.'"  — "  My 
betters,"  says  Slipslop,  "  who  is  my  betters,  pray  ?  " 
—  "I  am  your  betters,"  answered  Miss  Grave-airs, 
"  and  I  '11  acquaint  your  mistress."  —  At  which  Mrs. 
Slipslop  laughed  aloud,  and  told  her,  "  Her  lady  was 
one  of  the  great  gentry  ;  and  such  little  paultry 
gentlewomen  as  some  folks,  who  travelled  in  stage- 
coaches, would  not  easily  come  at  her." 

This  smart  dialogue  between  some  people  and 
some  folks  was  going  on  at  the  coach  door  when  a 
solemn  person,  riding  into  the  inn,  and  seeing  Miss 
Grave-airs,  immediately  accosted  her  with  "Dear 
child,  how  do  you  ?  "  She  presently  answered,  "  O 
papa,  I  am  glad  you  have  overtaken  me,"  —  "  So  am 
I,"  answered  he  ;  "  for  one  of  our  coaches  is  just  at 
hand ;  and,  there  being  room  for  you  in  it,  you  shall 
go  no  farther  in  the  stage  unless  you  desire  it."  — 
"How  can  you  imagine  I  should  desire  it?"  says 
she ;  so,  bidding  Slipslop  ride  with  her  fellow,  if  she 
pleased,  she  took  her  father  by  the  hand,  who  was 
just  alighted,  and  walked  with  him  into  a  room. 

Adams  instantly  asked  the  coachman,  in  a  whisper, 
"  If  he  knew  who  the  gentleman  was  ? "  The  coach- 
man answered,  "  He  was  now  a  gentleman,  and  kept 

[  1'73] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

his  horse  and  man ;  but  times  are  altered,  master,"" 
said  he ;  "  I  remember  when  he  was  no  better  born 
than  myself." — "Aye!  aye!"  says  Adams.  "My 
father  drove  the  squire^s  coach,"  answered  he,  "  when 
that  very  man  rode  postillion ;  but  he  is  now  his 
steward ;  and  a  great  gentleman."  Adams  then 
snapped  his  fingers,  and  cried,  "  He  thought  she 
was  some  such  trollop." 

Adams  made  haste  to  acquaint  Mrs.  Slipslop  with 
this  good  news,  as  he  imagined  it ;  but  it  found  a 
reception  different  from  what  he  expected.  The 
prudent  gentlewoman,  who  despised  the  anger  of 
Miss  Grave-airs  whilst  she  conceived  her  the  daughter 
of  a  gentleman  of  small  fortune,  now  she  heard  her 
alliance  with  the  upper  servants  of  a  great  family  in 
her  neighbourhood,  began  to  fear  her  interest  with 
the  mistress.  She  wished  she  had  not  carried  the 
dispute  so  far,  and  began  to  think  of  endeavouring 
to  reconcile  herself  to  the  young  lady  before  she  left 
the  inn  ;  when,  luckily,  the  scene  at  London,  which 
the  reader  can  scarce  have  forgotten,  presented  itself 
to  her  mind,  and  comforted  her  with  such  assurance, 
that  she  no  longer  apprehended  any  enemy  with  her 
mistress. 

Everything  being  now  adjusted,  the  company 
entered  the  coach,  which  was  just  on  its  departure, 
when  one  lady  recollected  she  had  left  her  fan,  a 
second  her  gloves,  a  third  a  snuff'-box,  and  a  fourth  a 

[  174  ] 


SCANDAL 

smelling-bottle  behind  her  ;  to  find  all  which  occa- 
sioned some  delay  and  much  swearing  to  the 
coachman. 

As  soon  as  the  coach  had  left  the  inn,  the  women 
all  together  fell  to  the  character  of  Miss  Grave-airs ; 
whom  one  of  them  declared  she  had  suspected  to 
be  some  low  creature,  from  the  beginning  of  their 
journey,  and  another  affirmed  she  had  not  even  the 
looks  of  a  gentlewoman  :  a  third  waiTanted  she  was 
no  better  than  she  should  be ;  and,  turning  to  the 
lady  who  had  related  the  story  in  the  coach,  said, 
"  Did  you  ever  hear,  madam,  anything  so  prudish  as 
her  remarks  ?  Well,  deliver  me  from  the  censori- 
ousness  of  such  a  prude."  The  fourth  added,  "  O 
madam  !  all  these  creatures  are  censorious  ;  but  for 
my  part,  I  wonder  where  the  wretch  was  bred ;  indeed, 
I  must  own  I  have  seldom  conversed  with  these  mean 
kind  of  people,  so  that  it  may  appear  stranger  to 
me;  but  to  refuse  the  general  desire  of  a  whole 
company  had  something  in  it  so  astonishing,  that, 
for  my  part,  I  own  I  should  hardly  believe  it  if 
my  o^vn  ears  had  not  been  witnesses  to  it."  —  "  Yes, 
and  so  handsome  a  young  fellow,"  cries  Slipslop  ; 
"  the  woman  must  have  no  compulsion  in  her :  I 
believe  she  is  more  of  a  Turk  than  a  Christian  ;  I  am 
ceiiain,  if  she  had  any  Christian  woman''s  blood 
in  her  veins,  the  sight  of  such  a  young  fellow  must 
have  warmed  it.     Indeed,   there  are  some  wretched, 

[175] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

miserable  old  objects,  tlmt  turn  one's  stomach  ;  I 
should  not  wonder  if  she  had  refused  such  a  one  ; 
I  am  as  nice  as  herself,  and  should  have  cared  no 
more  than  herself  for  the  company  of  stinking  old 
fellows  ;  but,  hold  up  thy  head,  Joseph,  thou  art 
none  of  those ;  and  she  who  hath  not  compulsion  for 
thee  is  a  Myhummetman,  and  I  will  maintain  it," 
This  conversation  made  Joseph  uneasy  as  well  as  the 
ladies  ;  who,  perceiving  the  spirits  which  Mrs.  Slip- 
slop was  in  (for  indeed  she  was  not  a  cup  too  low), 
began  to  fear  the  consequence  ;  one  of  them  therefore 
desired  the  lady  to  conclude  the  story.  "  Aye, 
madam,''  said  Slipslop,  "  I  beg  your  ladyship  to  give 
us  that  story  you  commensated  in  the  morning  ; " 
which  request  that  well-bred  woman  immediately 
complied  with. 


[176] 


CHAPTER    SIX 

CONCLUSION    OF   THE    UNFORTUNATE    JILT. 

tEONORA,  having  once  broke  through  the 
bounds  which  custom  and  modesty  impose 
J  on  her  sex,  soon  gave  an  unbridled  indul- 
""^  gence  to  her  passion.  Her  visits  to  Bel- 
larmine  were  more  constant,  as  well  as  longer,  than 
his  surgeon's  :  in  a  word,  she  became  absolutely  his 
nurse  ;  made  his  water-gruel,  administered  him  his 
medicines ;  and,  notwithstanding  the  prudent  advice 
of  her  aunt  to  the  contrary,  almost  intirely  resided 
in  her  wounded  lover"'s  apartment. 

The  ladies  of  the  town  began  to  take  her  conduct 
under  consideration  :  it  was  the  chief  topic  of  dis- 
course at  their  tea-tables,  and  was  very  severely 
censured  by  the  most  part ;  especially  by  Lindamira, 
a  ladv  whose  discreet  and  starch  carriage,  together 
with  a  constant  attendance  at  church  three  times  a 
day,  had  utterly  defeated  many  malicious  attacks  on 
her  own  reputation ;  for  such  was  the  envy  that 
Lindamira's  virtue  had  attracted,  that,  notwith- 
standing her  own  strict  behaviour  and  strict  enquiry 
vot.  I.  — 12  [177] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

into  the  lives  of  others,  she  had  not  been  able  to 
escape  being  the  mark  of  some  arrows  herself,  which, 
however,  did  her  no  injury  ;  a  blessing,  perhaps,  owed 
by  her  to  the  clergy,  who  were  her  chief  male  com- 
panions, and  with  two  or  three  of  whom  she  had  been 
barbarously  and  unjustly  calumniated. 

"  Not  so  unjustly  neither,  perhaps,"  says  Slipslop  ; 
"  for  the  clergy  are  men,  as  well  as  other  folks."" 

The  extreme  delicacy  of  Lindamira's  virtue  was 
cruelly  hurt  by  those  freedoms  which  Leonora  allowed 
herself :  she  said,  "  It  was  an  affront  to  her  sex ;  that 
she  did  not  imagine  it  consistent  with  any  woman's 
honour  to  speak  to  the  creature,  or  to  be  seen  in  her 
company  ;  and  that,  for  her  part,  she  should  always 
refuse  to  dance  at  an  assembly  with  her,  for  fear  of 
contamination  by  taking  her  by  the  hand." 

But  to  return  to  my  story  :  as  soon  as  Bellarmine 
was  recovered,  which  was  somewhat  within  a  month 
from  his  receiving  the  wound,  he  set  out,  according 
to  agreement,  for  Leonora's  fathers,  in  order  to 
propose  the  match,  and  settle  all  matters  with  him 
touching  settlements,  and  the  like. 

A  little  before  his  arrival  the  old  gentleman  had 
received  an  intimation  of  the  affair  by  the  following 
letter,  which  I  can  repeat  verbatim,  and  which,  they 
say,  was  written  neither  by  I^eonora  nor  her  aunt, 
though  it  was  in  a  woman's  hand.  The  letter  was  in 
these  words :  — 

[178] 


LEOxNORA^S    FATHER 

*'  SiRj  —  I  am  sorry  to  acquaint  you  that  your 
daughter,  Leonora,  hath  acted  one  of  the  basest  as  well 
as  most  simple  parts  with  a  young  gentleman  to  whom 
she  had  engaged  herself,  and  whom  she  hath  (pardon 
the  word)  jilted  for  another  of  inferior  fortune,  notwith- 
standing his  superior  figure.  You  may  take  what  meas- 
ures you  please  on  this  occasion ;  I  have  performed 
what  I  thought  my  duty  ;  as  I  have,  though  unknown 
to  you,  a  very  great  respect  for  your  family." 

The  old  gentleman  did  not  give  himself  the 
trouble  to  answer  this  kind  epistle  ;  nor  did  he  take 
any  notice  of  it,  after  he  had  read  it,  till  he  saw 
Bellarniine.  He  was,  to  say  the  truth,  one  of  those 
fathers  who  look  on  children  as  an  unhappy  con- 
sequence of  their  youthful  pleasures ;  which,  as  he 
would  have  been  delighted  not  to  have  had  attended 
them,  so  was  he  no  less  pleased  with  any  opportunity 
to  rid  himself  of  the  incumbrance.  He  passed,  in 
the  world's  language,  as  an  exceeding  good  father ; 
being  not  only  so  rapacious  as  to  rob  and  plunder 
all  mankind  to  the  utmost  of  his  power,  but  even 
to  deny  himself  the  conveniences,  and  almost  neces- 
saries, of  life  ;  which  his  neighbours  attributed  to  a 
desire  of  raising  immense  fortunes  for  his  children  : 
but  in  fact  it  was  not  so ;  he  heaped  up  money 
for  its  own  sake  only,  and  looked  on  his  children 
as  his  rivals,  who  were  to  enjoy  his  beloved  mis- 
tress when  he  was  incapable  of  possessing  her,  and 

[179] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

which  he  would  have  been  much  more  charmed 
with  the  power  of  carrying  along  with  him  ;  nor 
had  his  children  any  other  security  of  being  his  heirs 
than  that  the  law  would  constitute  them  such  with- 
out a  will,  and  that  he  had  not  affection  enough  for 
any  one  living  to  take  the  trouble  of  writing  one. 

To  this  gentleman  came  Bellarmine,  on  the  errand 
I  have  mentioned.  His  person,  his  equipage,  his 
family,  and  his  estate,  seemed  to  the  father  to  make 
him  an  advanta^jeous  match  for  his  daughter :  he 
therefore  very  readily  accepted  his  proposals  :  but 
when  Bellarmine  imagined  the  principal  affair  con- 
cluded, and  began  to  open  the  incidental  matters 
of  fortune,  the  old  gentleman  presently  changed  his 
countenance,  saying,  "  He  resolved  never  to  marry 
his  daughter  on  a  Smithfield  match  ;  that  whoever 
had  love  for  her  to  take  her  would,  when  he  died, 
find  her  share  of  his  fortune  in  his  coffers  ;  but  he 
had  seen  such  examples  of  undutifulness  happen 
from  the  too  early  generosity  of  parents,  that  he  had 
made  a  vow  never  to  part  with  a  shilling  whilst  he 
lived.""  He  commended  the  saying  of  Solomon,  "  He 
that  spareth  the  rod  spoileth  the  child  ; ""  but  added, 
"he  might  have  likewise  asserted.  That  he  that 
spareth  the  purse  saveth  the  child."  He  then  ran 
into  a  discourse  on  the  extravagance  of  the  youth  of 
the  age ;  whence  he  launched  into  a  dissertation  on 
horses  ;  and  came  at  length  to  commend  those  Bellar- 

[  180  ] 


CONSIDERATIONS    OF    FORTUNE 

mine  drove.  That  fine  gentleman,  who  at  another 
season  would  have  been  well  enough  pleased  to  dwell 
a  little  on  that  subject,  was  now  very  eager  to  resume 
the  circumstance  of  fortune.  He  said,  "  He  had 
a  very  high  value  for  the  young  lady,  and  would 
receive  her  with  less  than  he  would  any  other  what- 
ever ;  but  that  even  his  love  to  her  made  some  regard 
to  worldly  matters  necessary  ;  for  it  would  be  a  most 
distracting  sight  for  him  to  see  her,  when  he  had 
the  honour  to  be  her  husband,  in  l^s  than  a  coach 
and  six."  The  old  gentleman  answered,  "  Four  will 
do,  four  will  do  ; ""  and  then  took  a  turn  from  horses 
to  extravagance  and  from  extravagance  to  horses,  till 
he  came  round  to  the  equipage  again  ;  whither  he 
was  no  sooner  arrived  than  Bellarmine  brought  him 
back  to  the  point ;  but  all  to  no  purpose ;  he  made 
his  escape  from  that  subject  in  a  minute  ;  till  at  last 
the  lover  declared,  "  That  in  the  present  situation  of 
his  affairs  it  was  impossible  for  him,  though  he  loved 
Leonora  more  than  tout  le  monde^  to  marry  her  with- 
out any  fortune."  To  which  the  father  answered, 
"  He  was  sorry  that  his  daughter  must  lose  so  valu- 
able a  match  ;  that,  if  he  had  an  inclination,  at 
present  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  advance  a  shilling : 
that  he  had  had  great  losses,  and  been  at  great 
expenses  on  projects;  which,  though  he  had  great 
expectation  from  them,  had  yet  produced  him  noth- 
ing :    that  he   did  not   know   what   might   happen 

[181] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

hereafter,  as  on  the  birth  of  a  son,  or  such  acci- 
dent ;  but  he  would  make  no  promise,  or  enter  into 
any  article,  for  he  would  not  break  his  vow  for  all 
the  daughters  in  the  world." 

In  short,  ladies,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense, 
Bellarmine,  having  tried  every  argument  and  per- 
suasion which  he  could  invent,  and  finding  them  all 
ineffectual,  at  length  took  his  leave,  but  not  in  order 
to  return  to  Leonora  ;  he  proceeded  directly  to  his 
own  seat,  whence,  after  a  few  days'*  stay,  he  returned 
to  Paris,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  French  and  the 
honour  of  the  English  nation. 

But  as  soon  as  he  arrived  at  his  home  he  presently 
despatched  a  messenger  with  the  following  epistle  to 
Leonora :  — 

"  Adorable  and  Charmante,  —  I  am  sorry  to  have 
the  honour  to  tell  you  I  am  not  the  heureux  person 
destined  for  your  divine  arms.  Your  papa  hath  told 
me  so  with  a  politesse  not  often  seen  on  this  side  Paris. 
You  may  perhaps  guess  his  manner  of  refusing  me.  Ah, 
mon  Dieu  !  You  will  certainly  believe  me,  madam,  in- 
capable myself  of  delivering  this  triste  message,  which  I 
intend  to  try  the  French  air  to  cure  the  consequences 
of.  A  jamais  !  Cceur  !  Ange  !  Au  diahle  !  If  your  papa 
obliges  you  to  a  marriage,  I  hope  we  shall  see  you  at 
Paris  ;  till  when,  the  wind  that  flows  from  thence  will 
be  the  warmest  dans  le  7nonde,  for  it  will  consist  almost 
entirely  of  my  sighs.    Adieu,  mapiincesse  !     Ah,  l amour  ! 

"Bellarmine." 
[  182] 


LEONORA    DISCONSOLATE 

I  shall  not  attempt,  ladies,  to  describe  Leonora's 
condition  when  she  received  this  letter.  It  is  a 
picture  of  horror,  which  I  should  have  as  little  plea- 
sure in  drawing  as  you  in  beholding.  She  immedi- 
ately left  the  place  where  she  was  the  subject  of 
conversation  and  ridicule,  and  retired  to  that  house 
I  showed  you  when  I  began  the  story ;  where  she 
hath  ever  since  led  a  disconsolate  life,  and  deserves, 
perhaps,  pity  for  her  misfortunes,  more  than  our 
censure  for  a  behaviour  to  which  the  artifices  of  her 
aunt  very  probably  contributed,  and  to  which  very 
young  women  are  often  rendered  too  liable  by  that 
blameable  levity  in  the  education  of  our  sex. 

"  If  I  was  inclined  to  pity  her,"  said  a  young  lady 
in  the  coach,  "  it  would  be  for  the  loss  of  Horatio ; 
for  I  cannot  discern  any  misfortune  in  her  missing 
such  a  husband  as  Bellarmine.'" 

"  Why,  I  must  own,"  says  Slipslop,  "  the  gentleman 
w^as  a  little  false-hearted  ;  but  howsumever,  it  was 
hard  to  have  two  lovers,  and  get  never  a  husband  at 
all.     But  pray,  madam,  what  became  of  Our-asho  ?  " 

He  remains,  said  the  lady,  still  unmarried,  and 
hath  applied  himself  so  strictly  to  his  business,  that 
he  hath  raised,  I  hear,  a  very  considerable  fortune. 
And  what  is  remarkable,  they  say  he  never  hears 
the  name  of  Leonora  without  a  sigh,  nor  hath  ever 
uttered  one  syllable  to  charge  her  with  her  ill-con- 
duct towards  him. 

[183] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

A  VERY  SHORT  CHAPTER,  IN  WHICH    PARSON  ADAMS  WENl 
A  GREAT  WAY. 

THE  lady,  having  finished  her  story, 
received  the  thanks  of  the  company ; 
and  now  Joseph,  putting  his  head  out 
of  the  coach,  cried  out,  "  Never  beHeve 
me  if  yonder  be  not  our  parson  Adams  walking  along 
without  his  horse  ! ""  —  "  On  my  word,  and  so  he  is," 
says  Slipslop  :  "  and  as  sure  as  twopence  he  hath 
left  him  behind  at  the  inn.""  Indeed,  true  it  is,  the 
parson  had  exhibited  a  fresh  instance  of  his  absence 
of  mind ;  for  he  was  so  pleased  with  having  got 
Joseph  into  the  coach,  that  he  never  once  thought 
of  the  beast  in  the  stable ;  and,  finding  his  legs  as 
nimble  as  he  desired,  he  sallied  out,  brandishing  a 
crabstick,  and  had  kept  on  before  the  coach,  mend- 
ing and  slackening  his  pace  occasionally,  so  that  he 
had  never  been  much  more  or  less  than  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  distant  from  it. 

Mrs.  Slipslop  desired   the  coachman  to  overtake 
him,  which  he  attempted,  but  in  vain ;  for  the  faster 

[  184] 


THE    PARSON'S    ADVENTURE 

he  drove  the  faster  ran  the  parson,  often  crying  out, 
"  Aye,  aye,  catch  me  if  you  can ; "  till  at  length  the 
coachman  swore  he  would  as  soon  attempt  to  drive 
after  a  greyhound,  and,  giving  the  parson  two  or 
three  hearty  curses,  he  cry'  d,  "  Softly,  softly,  boys," 
to  his  horses,  which  the  civil  beasts  immediately 
obeyed. 

But  we  will  be  more  courteous  to  our  reader  than 
he  was  to  Mrs.  Slipslop ;  and,  leaving  the  coach  and 
its  company  to  pursue  their  journey,  we  will  carry 
our  reader  on  after  parson  Adams,  who  stretched 
forwards  without  once  looking  behind  him,  till,  hav- 
ing left  the  coach  full  three  miles  in  his  rear,  he 
came  to  a  place  where,  by  keeping  the  extremest 
track  to  the  right,  it  was  just  barely  possible  for  a 
human  creature  to  miss  his  way.  This  track,  however, 
did  he  keep,  as  indeed  he  had  a  wonderful  capacity 
at  these  kinds  of  bare  possibilities,  and,  travelling 
in  it  about  three  miles  over  the  plain,  he  arrived 
at  the  summit  of  a  hill,  whence  looking  a  great 
way  backwards,  and  perceiving  no  coach  in  sight, 
he  sat  himself  down  on  the  turf,  and,  pulling 
out  his  iEschylus,  determined  to  wait  here  for  its 
arrival. 

He  had  not  sat  long  here  before  a  gun  going  off 
very  near,  a  little  startled  him  ;  he  looked  up  and 
saw  a  gentleman  within  a  hundred  paces  taking 
up  a  partridge  which  he  had  just  shot. 

[  185] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Adams  stood  up  and  presented  a  figure  to  the 
gentleman  which  would  have  moved  laughter  in 
many  ;  for  his  cassock  had  just  again  fallen  down 
below  his  greatcoat,  that  is  to  say,  it  reached  his 
knees,  whereas  the  skirts  of  his  greatcoat  descended 
no  lower  than  half-way  down  his  thighs ;  but  the 
gentleman's  mirth  gave  way  to  his  surprize  at  behold- 
ing such  a  personage  in  such  a  place. 

Adams,  advancing  to  the  gentleman,  told  him  he 
hoped  he  had  good  sport,  to  which  the  other 
answered,  "  Very  little."  —  "I  see,  sir,"  says  Adams, 
"  you  have  smote  one  partridge  ; "  to  which  the  sports- 
man made  no  reply,  but  proceeded  to  charge  his 
piece. 

Whilst  the  gun  was  charging,  Adams  remained  in 
silence,  which  he  at  last  broke  by  observing  that  it 
was  a  delightful  evening.  The  gentleman,  who  had 
at  first  sight  conceived  a  very  distasteful  opinion  of 
the  parson,  began,  on  perceiving  a  book  in  his  hand 
and  smoaking  likewise  the  information  of  the  cassock, 
to  change  his  thoughts,  and  made  a  small  advance  to 
conversation  on  his  side  by  saying,  "  Sir,  I  suppose 
you  are  not  one  of  these  parts  ?  " 

Adams  immediately  told  him,  "  No ;  that  he  was 
a  traveller,  and  invited  by  the  beauty  of  the  evening 
and  the  place  to  repose  a  little  and  amuse  himself 
with  reading."  —  "I  may  as  well  repose  myself  too," 
said  the  sportsman,  "  for  I  have  been  out  this  whole 

[186] 


A    TALK    WITH    A    SPORTSMAN 

afternoon,  and  the  devil  a  bird  have  I  seen  till  I 
came  hither." 

"  Perhaps  then  the  game  is  not  very  plenty  here- 
abouts ?  '"  cries  Adams.  "  No,  sir,"  said  the  gentle- 
man :  "  the  soldiers,  who  are  quartered  in  the 
neighbourhood,  have  killed  it  all."  — "  It  is  very 
probable,"  cries  Adams,  "  for  shooting  is  their  pro- 
fession." —  "  Aye,  shooting  the  game,"  answered  the 
other ;  "  but  I  don't  see  they  are  so  forward  to  shoot 
our  enemies.  I  don't  like  that  affair  of  Carthagena ; 
if  I  had  been  there,  I  believe  I  should  have  done 
other-guess  things,  d — n  me  :  what 's  a  man's  life  when 
his  country  demands  it  ?  a  man  who  won't  sacrifice 
his  life  for  his  country  deserves  to  be  hanged,  d — n 
me."  Which  words  he  spoke  with  so  violent  a 
gesture,  so  loud  a  voice,  so  strong  an  accent,  and  so 
fierce  a  countenance,  that  he  might  have  frightened 
a  captain  of  trained  bands  at  the  head  of  his  com- 
pany ;  but  Mr.  Adams  was  not  greatly  subject  to 
fear ;  he  told  him  intrepidly  that  he  very  much 
approved  his  virtue,  but  disliked  his  swearing,  and 
begged  him  not  to  addict  himself  to  so  bad  a  custom, 
without  which  he  said  he  might  fight  as  bravely  as 
Achilles  did.  Indeed  he  was  charmed  with  this 
discourse ;  he  told  the  gentleman  he  would  willingly 
have  gone  many  miles  to  have  met  a  man  of  his 
generous  way  of  thinking ;  that,  if  he  pleased  to  sit 
down,  he  should  be  greatly  delighted  to  commune 

[187] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

with  him  ;  for,  though  he  was  a  clergyman,  he  would 
himself  be  ready,  if  thereto  called,  to  lay  down  his 
life  for  his  country. 

The  gentleman  sat  down,  and  Adams  by  him  ; 
and  then  the  latter  began,  as  in  the  following  chap- 
ter, a  discourse  which  we  have  placed  by  itself,  as  it 
is  not  only  the  most  curious  in  this  but  perhaps  in 
any  other  book. 


[188] 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

A  NOTABLE  DISSERTATION  BY  MR.  ABRAHAM  ADAMS  ; 
WHEREIN  THAT  GENTLEMAN  APPEARS  IN  A  POLIT- 
ICAL   LIGHT. 

I  DO  assure  you,  sir"  (says  he,  taking  the 
gentleman  by  the  hand),  "  I  am  heartily 
glad  to  meet  with  a  man  of  your  kidney  ; 
for,  though  I  am  a  poor  parson,  I  will  be 
bold  to  say  I  am  an  honest  man,  and  would  not  do 
an  ill  thing  to  be  made  a  bishop  ;  nay,  though  it 
hath  not  fallen  in  my  way  to  offer  so  noble  a  sacrifice, 
I  have  not  been  without  opportunities  of  suffering 
for  the  sake  of  my  conscience,  I  thank  Heaven  for 
them ;  for  I  have  had  relations,  though  I  say  it, 
who  made  some  figure  in  the  world ;  particularly  a 
nephew,  who  was  a  shopkeeper  and  an  alderman  of  a 
corporation.  He  was  a  good  lad,  and  was  under  my 
care  when  a  boy ;  and  I  believe  would  do  what  I  bade 
him  to  his  dying  day.  Indeed,  it  looks  like  extreme 
vanity  in  me  to  affect  being  a  man  of  such  consequence 
as  to  have  so  great  an  interest  in  an  alderman  ;  but 
others  have  thought  so  too,  as  manifestly  appeared  by 
the  rector,  whose  curate  I  formerly  was,  sending  for 

[189] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

me  on  the  approach  of  an  election,  and  telling  me,  if 
I  expected  to  continue  in  his  cure,  that  I  must  bring 
my  nephew  to  vote  for  one  Colonel  Courtly,  a  gentle- 
man whom  I  had  never  heard  tidings  of  till  that 
instant.  I  told  the  rector  I  had  no  power  over  my 
nephew"'s  vote  (God  forgive  me  for  such  prevarica- 
tion !) ;  that  I  supposed  he  would  give  it  according 
to  his  conscience  ;  that  I  would  by  no  means  endeavour 
to  influence  him  to  give  it  otherwise.  He  told  me  it 
was  in  vain  to  equivocate ;  that  he  knew  I  had  already 
spoke  to  him  in  favour  of  esquire  Fickle,  my  neigh- 
bour ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  true  I  had ;  for  it  was  at  a 
season  when  the  church  was  in  danger,  and  when  all 
good  men  expected  they  knew  not  what  would  happen 
to  us  all.  I  then  answered  boldly,  if  he  thought  I 
had  given  my  promise,  he  affronted  me  in  proposing 
any  breach  of  it.  Not  to  be  too  prolix  ;  I  persevered, 
and  so  did  my  nephew,  in  the  esquire's  interest,  who 
was  chose  chiefly  through  his  means ;  and  so  I  lost 
my  curacy.  Well,  sir,  but  do  you  think  the  esquire 
ever  mentioned  a  word  of  the  church  ?  Ne  verburn 
quidem^  id  Ha  d'lcam  :  within  two  years  he  got  a  place, 
and  hath  ever  since  lived  in  London  ;  where  I  have 
been  informed  (but  God  forbid  I  should  believe  that,) 
that  he  never  so  much  as  goeth  to  church.  I  re- 
mained, sir,  a  considerable  time  without  any  cure, 
and  lived  a  full  month  on  one  funeral  sermon,  which 
I  preached  on  the  indisposition  of  a  clergyman  ;  but 

[190] 


POLITICAL    INFLUENCE 

this  by  the  bye.  At  last,  when  Mr.  Fickle  got  his 
place,  Colonel  Courtly  stood  again  ;  and  who  should 
make  interest  for  him  but  Mr.  Fickle  himself!  that 
very  identical  Mr.  Fickle,  who  had  formerly  told  me 
the  colonel  was  an  enemy  to  both  the  church  and  state, 
had  the  confidence  to  sollicit  my  nephew  for  him  ; 
and  the  colonel  himself  offered  me  to  make  me  chap- 
lain to  his  regiment,  which  I  refused  in  favour  of 
Sir  Oliver  Heai-ty,  who  told  us  he  would  sacrifice 
everything  to  his  country ;  and  I  believe  he  would, 
except  his  hunting,  which  he  stuck  so  close  to,  that 
in  five  years  together  he  went  but  twice  up  to  parlia- 
ment ;  and  one  of  those  times,  I  have  been  told,  never 
was  within  sight  of  the  House.  However,  he  was  a 
worthy  man,  and  the  best  friend  I  ever  had ;  for,  by 
his  interest  with  a  bishop,  he  got  me  replaced  into 
-my  curacy,  and  gave  me  eight  pounds  out  of  his  own 
pocket  to  buy  me  a  gown  and  cassock,  and  furnish 
my  house.  He  had  our  interest  while  he  lived,  which 
was  not  many  years.  On  his  death  I  had  fresh  ap- 
plications made  to  me ;  for  all  the  world  knew  the 
interest  I  had  with  my  good  nephew,  who  now  was 
a  leading  nv^n  in  the  corporation  ;  and  Sir  Thomas 
Booby,  buying  the  estate  which  had  been  Sir  Oliver's, 
proposed  himself  a  candidate.  He  was  then  a  young 
gentleman  just  come  from  his  travels  ;  and  it  did  me 
good  to  hear  him  discourse  on  affairs  which,  for  my 
part,  I  knew  nothing  of.     If  I  had  been  master  of  a 

[191] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

thousand  votes  he  should  have  had  them  all.  I 
engaged  my  nephew  in  his  interest,  and  he  was 
elected;  and  a  very  fine  parliament-man  he  was. 
They  tell  me  he  made  speeches  of  an  hour  long,  and, 
I  have  been  told,  very  fine  ones  ;  but  he  could  never 
persuade  the  parliament  to  be  of  his  opinion.  Non 
omnia  poss^imus  omnes.  He  promised  me  a  living, 
poor  man !  and  I  believe  I  should  have  had  it,  but 
an  accident  happened,  which  was,  that  my  lady  had 
promised  it  before,  unknown  to  him.  This,  indeed,  I 
never  heard  till  afterwards  ;  for  my  nephew,  who  died 
about  a  month  before  the  incumbent,  always  told  me  I 
might  be  assured  of  it.  Since  that  time.  Sir  Thomas, 
poor  man,  had  always  so  much  business,  that  he  never 
could  find  leisure  to  see  me.  I  believe  it  was  partly 
my  lady's  fault  too,  who  did  not  think  my  di'ess  good 
enough  for  the  gentry  at  her  table.  However,  I  must 
do  him  the  justice  to  say  he  never  was  ungrateful ; 
and  I  have  always  found  his  kitchen,  and  his  cellar 
too,  open  to  me :  many  a  time,  after  service  on  a 
Sunday  —  for  I  preach  at  four  churches  —  have  I 
recruited  my  spirits  with  a  glass  of  his  ale.  Since 
my  nephew's  death,  the  corporation  is  in  other 
hands ;  and  I  am  not  a  man  of  that  consequence  I 
was  formerly.  I  have  now  no  longer  any  talents  to 
lay  out  in  the  service  of  my  country ;  and  to  Avhom 
nothing  is  given,  of  him  can  nothing  be  required. 
However,  on  all  proper  seasons,  such  as  the  approach 

[  192] 


THE    PARSON'S    SON 

of  an  election,  I  throw  a  suitable  dash  or  two  into 
my  sermons ;  which  I  have  the  pleasure  to  hear  is 
not  disagreeable  to  Sir  Thomas  and  the  other  honest 
gentlemen  my  neighbours,  who  have  all  promised  me 
these  five  years  to  procure  an  ordination  for  a  son  of 
mine,  who  is  now  near  thirty,  hath  an  infinite  stock 
of  learning,  and  is,  I  thank  Heaven,  of  an  unexcep- 
tionable life  ;  though,  as  he  was  never  at  an  univer- 
sity, the  bishop  refuses  to  ordain  him.  Too  much 
care  cannot  indeed  be  taken  in  admitting  any  to  the 
sacred  office ;  though  I  hope  he  will  never  act  so  as 
to  be  a  disgrace  to  any  order,  but  will  serve  his  God 
and  his  country  to  the  utmost  of  his  power,  as  I  have 
endeavoured  to  do  before  him  ;  nay,  and  will  lay 
down  his  life  whenever  called  to  that  purpose,  I  am 
sure  I  have  educated  him  in  those  principles ;  so  that 
I  have  acquitted  my  duty,  and  shall  have  nothing  to 
answer  for  on  that  account.  But  I  do  not  distrust 
him,  for  he  is  a  good  boy  ;  and  if  Providence  should 
throw  it  in  his  way  to  be  of  as  much  consequence  in 
a  public  light  as  his  father  once  was,  I  can  answer 
for  him  he  will  use  his  talents  as  honestly  as  I  have 
done." 


VOL.  I.  — 18  [193] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

IN  WHICH  THE  GENTLEMAN  DISCANTS  ON  BRAVEEY  AND 
HEROIC  VIRTUE,  TILL  AN  UNLUCKY  ACCIDENT  PUTS 
AN    END    TO    THE    DISCOURSE. 

iHE  gentleman  highly  commended  Mr. 
Adams  for  his  good  resolutions,  and 
told  him,  "  He  hoped  his  son  would 
tread  in  his  steps  ;"  adding,  "  that  if  he 
would  not  die  for  his  country,  he  would  not  be  worthy 
to  live  in  it.  I  'd  make  no  more  of  shooting  a  man 
that  would  not  die  for  his  country,  than  — 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  have  disinherited  a  nephew,  who 
is  in  the  army,  because  he  would  not  exchange  his 
commission  and  go  to  the  West  Indies.  I  believe 
the  rascal  is  a  coward,  though  he  pretends  to  be  in 
love  forsooth.  I  would  have  all  such  fellows  hanged, 
sir  ;  I  would  have  them  hanged."  Adams  answered, 
"  That  would  be  too  severe  ;  that  men  did  not  make 
themselves ;  and  if  fear  had  too  much  ascendance  in 
the  mind,  the  man  was  rather  to  be  pitied  than 
abhorred  ;  that  reason  and  time  might  teach  him  to 
subdue  it."  He  said,  "  A  man  might  be  a  coward  at 
one  time,  and  brave  at  another.     Homer,"  says  he, 

[194] 


BRAVERY    DISCUSSED 

"  who  so  well  understood  and  copied  Nature,  hath 
taught  us  this  lesson ;  for  Paris  fights  and  Hector 
runs  away.  Nay,  we  have  a  mighty  instance  of  this 
in  the  history  of  later  ages,  no  longer  ago  than  the 
705th  year  of  Rome,  when  the  great  Pompey,  who 
had  won  so  many  battles  and  been  honoured  with  so 
many  triumphs,  and  of  whose  valour  several  authors, 
especially  Cicero  and  Paterculus,  have  formed  such 
elogiums ;  this  very  Pompey  left  the  battle  of 
Phai-salia  before  he  had  lost  it,  and  retreated  to  his 
tent,  where  he  sat  like  the  most  pusillanimous  rascal 
in  a  fit  of  despair,  and  yielded  a  victory,  which  was^ 
to  determine  the  empire  of  the  world,  to  Caesar,  I 
am  not  much  travelled  in  the  history  of  modern  times, 
that  is  to  say,  these  last  thousand  years ;  but  those 
who  are  can,  I  make  no  question,  furnish  you  with 
parallel  instances."  He  concluded,  therefore,  that, 
had  he  taken  any  such  hasty  resolutions  against  his 
nephew,  he  hoped  he  would  consider  better,  and  re- 
tract them.  The  gentleman  answered  with  great 
warmth,  and  talked  much  of  courage  and  his  coun- 
try, till,  perceiving  it  grew  late,  he  asked  Adams, 
*'  What  place  he  intended  for  that  night  ? "  He 
told  him,  "  He  waited  there  for  the  stage-coach." 
—  "  The  stage-coach,  sir  !  "  said  the  gentleman  ; 
"  they  are  all  passed  by  long  ago.  You  may  see  the 
last  yourself  almost  three  miles  before  us."  —  "I  pro- 
test and  so  they  are,"  cries  Adams ;  "  then  I  must  make 

[195] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

haste  and  follow  theni.^'  The  gentleman  told  him, 
he  would  hardly  be  able  to  overtake  them  ;  and  that, 
if  he  did  not  know  his  way,  he  would  be  in  danger  of 
losing  himself  on  the  downs,  for  it  would  be  presently 
dark  ;  and  he  might  ramble  about  all  night,  and  per- 
haps find  himself  farther  from  his  journey's  end  in 
the  morning  than  he  was  now.  He  advised  him, 
therefore,  "  to  accompany  him  to  his  house,  which 
was  very  little  out  of  his  way,"  assuring  him  "  that 
he  would  find  some  country  fellow  in  his  parish  who 
would  conduct  him  for  sixpence  to  the  city  where  he 
was  going."  Adams  accepted  this  proposal,  and  on 
they  travelled,  the  gentleman  renewing  his  discourse 
on  courage,  and  the  infamy  of  not  being  ready,  at  all 
times,  to  sacrifice  our  lives  to  our  country.  Night 
overtook  them  much  about  the  same  time  as  they 
arrived  near  some  bushes;  whence,  on  a  sudden, they 
heard  the  most  violent  shrieks  imaginable  in  a  female 
voice.  Adams  offered  to  snatch  the  gun  out  of  his 
companion''s  hand.  "  What  are  you  doing  ? "  said 
he.  "  Doing ! "  said  Adams  ;  "  I  am  hastening  to 
the  assistance  of  the  poor  creature  whom  some 
villains  are  murdering."  —  "  You  are  not  mad  enough, 
I  hope  "  says  the  gentleman,  trembling ;  "  do  you  con- 
sider this  gun  is  only  charged  with  shot,  and  that  the 
robbers  are  most  probably  furnished  with  pistols 
loaded  with  bullets  ?  This  is  no  business  of  ours ; 
let  us  make  as  much  haste  as  possible  out  of  the  way, 

[196] 


THE    RESCUE 

or  we  may  fall  into  their  hands  ourselves."  The 
shrieks  now  increasing,  Adams  made  no  answer,  but 
snapt  his  fingers,  and,  brandishing  his  crabstick,  made 
directly  to  the  place  whence  the  voice  issued  ;  and 
the  man  of  courage  made  as  much  expedition  towards 
his  own  home,  whither  he  escaped  in  a  very  short 
time  without  once  looking    behind    him  ;  where  we        j  \ 

will  leave  him,  to  contemplate  his  own  bravery,  and 
to  censure  the  want  of  it  in  others,  and  return  to  the 
good  Adams,  who,  on  coming  up  to  the  place  whence 
the  noise  proceeded,  found  a  woman  struggling  with 
a  man,  who  had  thrown  her  on  the  ground,  and  had 
almost  overpowered  her.  The  great  abilities  of  Mr. 
Adams  were  not  necessary  to  have  formed  a  right 
judgment  of  this  affair  on  the  first  sight.  He  did  not, 
therefore,  want  the  entreaties  of  the  poor  wretch  to 
assist  her ;  but,  lifting  up  his  crabstick,  he  immedi- 
ately levelled  a  blow  at  that  part  of  the  ravisher''s  head 
where,  according  to  the  opinion  of  the  ancients,  the 
brains  of  some  persons  are  deposited,  and  which  he 
had  undoubtedly  let  forth,  had  not  Nature  (who,  as 
wise  men  have  observed,  equips  all  creatures  with 
what  is  most  expedient  for  them)  taken  a  provident 
care  (as  she  always  doth  with  those  she  intends  for 
encounters)  to  make  this  part  of  the  head  three  times 
as  thick  as  those  of  ordinary  men  who  are  designed 
to  exercise  talents  which  are  vulgarly  called  rational, 
and  for  whom,  as  brains  are  necessary,  she  is  obliged 

[  197  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

to  leave  some  room  for  them  in  the  cavity  of  the 
skull ;  whereas,  those  ingredients  being  entirely  use- 
less to  persons  of  the  heroic  calling,  she  hath  an 
opportunity  of  thickening  the  bone,  so  as  to  make  it 
less  subject  to  any  impression,  or  liable  to  be  cracked 
or  broken :  and  indeed,  in  some  who  are  predes- 
tined to  the  command  of  armies  and  empires,  she 
is  supposed  sometimes  to  make  that  part  per- 
fectly  solid. 

As  a  game  cock,  when  engaged  in  amorous  toying 
with  a  hen,  if  perchance  he  espies  another  cock  at 
hand,  immediately  quits  his  female,  and  opposes 
himself  to  his  rival,  so  did  the  ravisher,  on  the  in- 
formation of  the  crabstick,  immediately  leap  from 
the  woman  and  hasten  to  assail  the  man.  He  had 
no  weapons  but  what  Nature  had  furnished  him  with. 
However,  he  clenched  his  fist,  and  presently  darted 
it  at  that  part  of  Adams's  breast  where  the  heart 
is  lodged.  Adams  staggered  at  the  violence  of  the 
blow,  when,  throwing  away  his  staff,  he  likewise 
clenched  that  fist  which  we  have  before  commemo- 
rated, and  would  have  discharged  it  full  in  the  breast 
of  his  antagonist,  had  he  not  dexterously  caught  it 
with  his  left  hand,  at  the  same  time  darting  his  head 
(which  some  modern  heroes  of  the  lower  class  use, 
like  the  battering-ram  of  the  ancients,  for  a  weapon 
of  offence  ;  another  reason  to  admire  the  cunningness 
of  Nature,  in  composing  it  of  those  impenetrable 

[198] 


MR.    ADAMS    VICTORIOUS 

materials)  ;  dashing  his  head,  I  say,  into  the  stomach 
of  Adams,  he  tumbled  him  on  his  back ;  and,  not 
having  any  regard  to  the  laws  of  heroism,  which 
would  have  restrained  him  from  any  farther  attack 
on  his  enemy  till  he  was  again  on  his  legs,  he  threw 
himself  upon  him,  and,  laying  hold  on  the  ground 
with  his  left  hand,  he  with  his  right  belaboured  the 
body  of  Adams  till  he  was  weary,  and  indeed  till  he 
concluded  (to  use  the  language  of  fighting)  "  that 
he  had  done  his  business ; "  or,  in  the  language  of 
poetry,  "  that  he  had  sent  him  to  the  shades  below  ;" 
in  plain  English,  "  that  he  was  dead." 

But  Adams,  who  was  no  chicken,  and  could  bear 
a  drubbing  as  well  as  any  boxing  champion  in  the 
universe,  lay  still  only  to  watch  his  opportunity ; 
and  now,  perceiving  his  antagonist  to  pant  with  his 
labours,  he  exerted  his  utmost  force  at  once,  and 
with  such  success  that  he  overturned  him,  and  became 
his  superior ;  when,  fixing  one  of  his  knees  in  his 
breast,  he  cried  out  in  an  exulting  voice,  "  It  is  my 
turn  now  ;"  and,  after  a  few  minutes'  constant  appli- 
cation, he  gave  him  so  dexterous  a  blow  just  under 
his  chin  that  the  fellow  no  longer  retained  any 
motion,  and  Adams  began  to  fear  he  had  struck  him 
once  too  often  ;  for  he  often  asserted  "  he  should  be 
concerned  to  have  the  blood  of  even  the  wicked  upon 
him.'' 

Adams   got   up   and  called    aloud  to  the   young 

[199] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

woman.  "  Be  of  good  cheer,  damsel,"  said  he,  "you 
are  no  longer  in  danger  of  jour  ravisher,  who,  I  am 
terribly  afraid,  lies  dead  at  my  feet ;  but  God  forgive 
me  what  I  have  done  in  defence  of  innocence ! " 
The  poor  wretch,  who  had  been  some  time  in 
recovering  strength  enough  to  rise,  and  had  after- 
wards, during  the  engagement,  stood  trembling, 
being  disabled  by  fear  even  from  running  away, 
hearing  her  champion  was  victorious,  came  up  to 
him,  but  not  without  apprehensions  even  of  her 
deliverer  ;  which,  however,  she  was  soon  relieved  from 
by  his  courteous  behaviour  and  gentle  words.  They 
were  both  standing  by  the  body,  which  lay  motion- 
less on  the  ground,  and  which  Adams  wished  to  see 
stir  much  more  than  the  woman  did,  when  he 
earnestly  begged  her  to  tell  him  "  by  what  misfor- 
tune she  came,  at  such  a  time  of  night,  into  so  lonely 
a  place."  She  acquainted  him,  "  She  was  travelling 
towards  London,  and  had  accidentally  met  with  the 
person  from  whom  he  had  delivered  her,  who  told 
her  he  was  likewise  on  his  journey  to  the  same  place, 
and  would  keep  her  company  ;  an  offer  which,  sus- 
pecting no  harm,  she  had  accepted  ;  that  he  told  her 
they  were  at  a  small  distance  from  an  inn  where 
she  might  take  up  her  lodging  that  evening,  and  he 
would  show  her  a  nearer  way  to  it  than  by  following 
the  road ;  that  if  she  had  suspected  him  (which  she 
did  not,  he  spoke  so  kindly  to  her),  being  alone  on 

[200] 


TRUST    IN    PROVIDENCE 

these  downs  in  the  dark,  she  had  no  human  means 
to  avoid  him  ;  that,  therefore,  she  put  her  whole 
trust  in  Providence,  and  walked  on,  expecting  every 
moment  to  arrive  at  the  inn  ;  when  on  a  sudden, 
being  come  to  those  bushes,  he  desired  her  to  stop, 
and  after  some  rude  kisses,  which  she  resisted,  and 
some  entreaties,  which  she  rejected,  he  laid  violent 
hands  on  her,  and  was  attempting  to  execute 
his  wicked  will,  when,  she  thanked  G — ,  he  timely 
came  up  and  prevented  him.""  Adams  encouraged 
her  for  saying  she  had  put  her  whole  trust  in  Provi- 
dence, and  told  her,  "  He  doubted  not  but  Providence 
had  sent  him  to  her  deliverance,  as  a  reward  for  that 
trust.  He  wished  indeed  he  had  not  deprived  the 
wicked  wretch  of  life,  but  G — 's  will  be  done ; "" 
said,  "  He  hoped  the  goodness  of  his  intention  would 
excuse  him  in  the  next  world,  and  he  trusted  in  her 
evidence  to  acquit  him  in  this."  He  was  then  silent, 
and  began  to  consider  with  himself  whether  it  would 
be  properer  to  make  his  escape,  or  to  deliver  him- 
self into  the  hands  of  justice ;  which  meditation 
ended  as  the  reader  will  see  in  the  next  chapter. 


[201] 


CHAPTER    TEN 

GIVrNG  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  STRANGE  CATASTROPHE  OF 
THE  PRECEDING  ADVENTURE,  WHICH  DREW  POOR 
ADAMS  INTO  FRESH  CALAMITIES  ;  AND  WHO  THE 
WOMAN  WAS  WHO  OWED  THE  PRESERVATION  OF 
HER   CHASTITY  TO    HIS    VICTORIOUS    ARM. 

THE  silence  of  Adams,  added  to  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  and  lonehness  of  the 
place,  struck  dreadful  apprehension  into 
the  poor  woman"'s  mind  ;  she  began  to 
fear  as  great  an  enemy  in  her  deliverer  as  he  had 
delivered  her  from  ;  and  as  she  had  not  light  enough 
to  discover  the  age  of  Adams,  and  the  benevolence 
visible  in  his  countenance,  she  suspected  he  had  used 
her  as  some  vei'y  honest  men  have  used  their  country  ; 
and  had  rescued  her  out  of  the  hands  of  one  rifler  in 
order  to  rifle  her  himself.  Such  were  the  suspicions 
she  drew  from  his  silence  ;  but  indeed  they  were  ill- 
grounded.  He  stood  over  his  vanquished  enemy, 
wisely  weighing  in  his  mind  the  objections  which 
might  be  made  to  either  of  the  two  methods  of  pro- 
ceeding mentioned  in  the  last  chapter,  his  judgment 
sometimes  inclining  to  the  one,  and  sometimes  to  the 

[202] 


ARRIVAL    OF    THE    SPORTSMEN 

other  ;  for  both  seemed  to  him  so  equally  advisable 
and  so  equally  dangerous,  that  probably  he  would 
have  ended  his  days,  at  least  two  or  three  of  them, 
on  that  very  spot,  before  he  had  taken  any  resolu- 
tion ;  at  length  he  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  spied  a 
light  at  a  distance,  to  which  he  instantly  addressed 
himself  with  Hens  tu^  traveller,  hei^s  tu !  He  pres- 
ently heard  several  voices,  and  perceived  the  light 
approaching  toward  him.  The  persons  who  attended 
the  light  began  some  to  laugh,  others  to  sing,  and 
others  to  hollow,  at  which  the  woman  testified  some 
fear  (for  she  had  concealed  her  suspicions  of  the 
parson  himself) ;  but  Adams  said,  "  Be  of  good  cheer, 
damsel,  and  repose  thy  trust  in  the  same  Provi- 
dence which  hath  hitherto  protected  thee,  and  never 
will  forsake  the  innocent."  These  people,  who  now 
approached,  were  no  other,  reader,  than  a  set  of 
young  fellows,  who  came  to  these  bushes  in  pursuit 
of  a  diversion  which  they  call  bird-batting.  This,  if 
you  are  ignorant  of  it  (as  perhaps  if  thou  hast  never 
travelled  beyond  Kensington,  Islington,  Hackney,  or 
the  Borough,  thou  mayst  be),  I  will  inform  thee, 
is  performed  by  holding  a  large  clap-net  before  a 
lanthorn,  and  at  the  same  time  beating  the  bushes ; 
for  the  birds,  when  they  are  disturbed  from  their 
places  of  rest,  or  roost,  immediately  make  to  the 
light,  and  so  are  inticed  within  the  net.  Adams 
immediately  told  them  what  happened,  and  desired 

[203] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

them  to  hold  the  lanthorn  to  the  face  of  the  man  on 
the  ground,  for  he  feared  he  had  smote  him  fatally. 
But  indeed  his  fears  were  frivolous  ;  for  the  fellow, 
though  he  had  been  stunned  by  the  last  blow  he 
received,  had  long  since  recovered  his  senses,  and, 
finding  himself  quit  of  Adams,  had  listened  atten- 
tively to  the  discourse  between  him  and  the  young 
woman  ;  for  whose  departure  he  had  patiently  waited, 
that  he  might  likewise  withdraw  himself,  having  no 
longer  hopes  of  succeeding  in  his  desires,  which  were 
moreover  almost  as  well  cooled  by  Mr.  Adams  as 
they  could  have  been  by  the  young  woman  herself 
had  he  obtained  his  utmost  wish.  This  fellow,  who 
had  a  readiness  at  improving  any  accident,  thought 
he  might  now  play  a  better  part  than  that  of  a  dead 
man  ;  and,  accordingly,  the  moment  the  candle  was 
held  to  his  face  he  leapt  up,  and,  laying  hold  on 
Adams,  cried  out,  "  No,  villain,  I  am  not  dead, 
though  you  and  your  wicked  whore  might  well  think 
me  so,  after  the  barbarous  cruelties  you  have  ex- 
ercised on  me.  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  you  are  luckily 
come  to  the  assistance  of  a  poor  traveller,  who  would 
otherwise  have  been  robbed  and  murdered  by  this  vile 
man  and  woman,  who  led  me  hither  out  of  my  way 
from  the  high-road,  and  both  falling  on  me  have  used 
me  as  you  see.""  Adams  was  going  to  answer,  when 
one  of  the  young  fellows  cried,  "  D — n  them,  let 's 
carry  them  both  before  the  j  ustice."    The  poor  woman 

[204] 


FRESH    CALAMITIES 

began  to  tremble,  and  Adams  lifted  up  his  voice,  but 
in  vain.  Three  or  four  of  them  laid  hands  on  him  ; 
and  one  holding  the  lanthorn  to  his  face,  they  all 
agreed  he  had  the  most  villainous  countenance  they 
ever  beheld ;  and  an  attorney's  clerk,  who  was  of  the 
company,  declared  he  was  sure  he  had  remembered 
him  at  the  bar.  As  to  the  Avoman,  her  hair  was 
dishevelled  in  the  struggle,  and  her  nose  had  bled ; 
so  that  they  could  not  perceive  whether  she  was  hand- 
some or  ugly,  but  they  said  her  fright  plainly  dis- 
covered her  guilt.  And  searching  her  pockets,  as 
they  did  those  of  Adams,  for  money,  which  the 
fellow  said  he  had  lost,  they  found  in  her  pocket  a 
purse  with  some  gold  in  it,  which  abundantly  con- 
vinced them,  especially  as  the  fellow  offered  to  swear 
to  it.  Mr.  Adams  was  found  to  have  no  more  than 
one  halfpenny  about  him.  This  the  clerk  said, 
"  was  a  great  presumption  that  he  was  an  old  offender, 
by  cunningly  giving  all  the  booty  to  the  woman." 
To  which  all  the  rest  readily  assented. 

This  accident  promising  them  better  sport  than 
what  they  had  proposed,  they  quitted  their  intention 
of  catching  birds,  and  unanimously  resolved  to  pro- 
ceed to  the  justice  with  the  offenders.  Being  in- 
formed what  a  desperate  fellow  Adams  was,  they 
tied  his  hands  behind  him  ;  and,  having  hid  their 
nets  among  the  bushes,  and  the  lanthorn  being 
canied  before  them,  they  placed  the  two  prisoners 

[205] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

in  their  front,  and  then  began  their  march ;  Adams 
not  only  submitting  patiently  to  his  own  fate,  but 
comforting  and  encouraging  his  companion  under 
her  sufferings. 

Whilst  they  were  on  their  way  the  clerk  in- 
formed the  rest  that  this  adventure  would  prove  a 
very  beneficial  one  ;  for  that  they  would  all  be  entitled 
to  their  proportions  of  ,£'80  for  apprehending  the 
robbers.  This  occasioned  a  contention  concerning 
the  parts  which  they  had  severally  borne  in  taking 
them ;  one  insisting  he  ought  to  have  the  greatest 
share,  for  he  had  first  laid  his  hands  on  Adams ; 
another  claiming  a  superior  part  for  having  first  held 
the  lanthorn  to  the  man's  face  on  the  ground,  by 
which,  he  said,  "  the  whole  was  discovered."  The 
clerk  claimed  four-fifths  of  the  reward  for  having 
proposed  to  search  the  prisoners,  and  likewise  the 
carrying  them  before  the  justice :  he  said,  "  Indeed, 
in  strict  justice,  he  ought  to  have  the  whole."  These 
claims,  however,  they  at  last  consented  to  refer  to  a 
future  decision,  but  seemed  all  to  agree  that  the 
clerk  was  entitled  to  a  moiety.  They  then  debated 
what  money  should  be  allotted  to  the  young  fellow 
who  had  been  employed  only  in  holding  the  nets. 
He  very  modestly  said,  "  That  he  did  not  apprehend 
any  large  proportion  would  fall  to  his  share,  but 
hoped  they  would  allow  him  something ;  he  desired 
them  to  consider  that  they  had  assigned  their  nets 

[  206  j 


RESIGNATION 

to  his  care,  which  prevented  him  from  being  as 
forward  as  any  in  laying  hold  of  the  robbers"  (for 
so  those  innocent  people  were  called) ;  "  that  if  he 
had  not  occupied  the  nets,  some  other  must;"  con- 
cluding, however,  "  that  he  should  l)e  contented  with 
the  smallest  share  imaginable,  and  should  think  that 
rather  their  bounty  than  his  merit."  But  they  were 
all  unanimous  in  excluding  him  from  any  part  what- 
ever, the  clerk  particularly  swearing,  "  If  they  gave 
him  a  shilling  they  might  do  what  they  pleased  with 
the  rest ;  for  he  would  not  concern  himself  with  the 
affair."  This  contention  was  so  hot,  and  so  totally  en- 
gaged the  attention  of  all  the  parties,  that  a  dexterous 
nimble  thief,  had  he  been  in  Mr.  Adams"'s  situation, 
would  have  taken  care  to  have  given  the  justice  no 
trouble  that  evening.  Indeed,  it  required  not  the 
art  of  a  Sheppard  to  escape,  especially  as  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  would  have  so  much  befriended 
him  ;  but  Adams  trusted  rather  to  his  innocence 
than  his  heels,  and,  without  thinking  of  flight,  which 
was  easy,  or  resistance  (which  was  impossible,  as  there 
were  six  lusty  young  fellows,  besides  the  villain  him- 
self, present),  he  walked  with  perfect  resignation  the 
way  they  thought  proper  to  conduct  him. 

Adams  frequently  vented  himself  in  ejaculations 
during  their  journey  ;  at  last,  poor  Joseph  Andrews 
occurring  to  his  mind,  he  could  not  refrain  sighing 
forth  his  name,  which  being  heard  by  his  companion 

[207] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

in  affliction,  she  cried  with  some  vehemence,  " Sure  I 
should  know  that  voice ;  you  cannot  certainly,  sir,  be 
Mr.  Abraham  Adams?"  —  "Indeed,  damsel,"  says 
he,  "  that  is  my  name  ;  there  is  something  also  in 
your  voice  which  persuades  me  I  have  heard  it  be- 
fore." —  "  La  !  sir,"  says  she,  "  don't  you  remember 
poor  Fanny  ?  "  —  "  How,  Fanny  ! "  answered  Adams  : 
"  indeed  I  very  well  remember  you  ;  what  can  have 
brought  you  hither  ? "  —  "I  have  told  you,  sir," 
replied  she,  "  I  was  travelling  towards  London  ;  but 
I  thought  you  mentioned  Joseph  Andrews ;  pray 
what  is  become  of  him  ? "  —  "I  left  him,  child,  this 
afternoon,"  said  Adams,  "  in  the  stage-coach,  in  his 
way  towards  our  parish,  whither  he  is  going  to  see 
you."  — "  To  see  me  !  La,  sir,"  answered  Fanny, 
"  sure  you  jeer  me ;  what  should  he  be  going  to  see 
me  for  ?  "  —  "  Can  you  ask  that  ?  "  replied  Adams. 
"  I  hope,  Fanny,  you  are  not  inconstant ;  I  assure 
you  he  deserves  much  better  of  you."  —  "  La !  Mr. 
Adams,"  said  she,  "  what  is  Mr.  Joseph  to  me  ?  I 
am  sure  I  never  had  anything  to  say  to  him,  but  as 
one  fellow-servant  might  to  another."  —  "I  am  sony 
to  hear  this,"  said  Adams  ;  "  a  virtuous  passion  for  a 
young  man  is  what  no  woman  need  be  ashamed  of. 
You  either  do  not  tell  me  truth,  or  you  are  false  to 
a  very  worthy  man."  Adams  then  told  her  what 
had  happened  at  the  inn,  to  which  she  listened  very 
attentively ;  and  a  sigh  often  escaped  from  her,  not- 

[208  J 


FANNYS  SUDDEN  DEPARTURE 

withstanding  her  utmost  endeavours  to  the  contrary  ; 
nor  could  she  prevent  herself  from  asking  a  thousand 
questions,  which  would  have  assured  any  one  but 
Adams,  who  never  saw  farther  into  people  than  they 
desired  to  let  him,  of  the  truth  of  a  passion  she 
endeavoured  to  conceal.  Indeed,  the  fact  was,  that 
this  poor  girl,  having  heard  of  Joseph's  misfortune, 
by  some  of  the  servants  belonging  to  the  coach  which 
we  have  formerly  mentioned  to  have  stopt  at  the  inn 
while  the  poor  youth  was  confined  to  his  bed,  that 
instant  abandoned  the  cow  she  was  milking,  and, 
taking  with  her  a  little  bundle  of  clothes  under  her 
arm,  and  all  the  money  she  was  worth  in  her  own 
purse,  without  consulting  any  one,  immediately  set 
forward  in  pursuit  of  one  whom,  notwithstanding  her 
shyness  to  the  parson,  she  loved  with  inexpressible 
violence,  though  with  the  purest  and  most  delicate 
passion.  This  shyness,  therefore,  as  we  trust  it  will 
recommend  her  character  to  all  our  female  readei*s, 
and  not  greatly  surprize  such  of  our  males  as  are 
well  acquainted  with  the  younger  part  of  the  other 
sex,  we  shall  not  give  ourselves  any  trouble  to 
vindicate. 


VOL.  I.  -  U  [  209  ] 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  THEM  WHILE    BEFORE    THE    JUSTICE. 
A    CHAPTER    VERY    FULL    OF    LEARNING. 

THEIR  fellow-travellers  were  so  engaged 
in  the  hot  dispute  concerning  the  di- 
vision of  the  reward  for  apprehending 
these  innocent  people,  that  they  attended 
very  little  to  their  discourse.  They  were  now  arrived 
at  the  justice's  house,  and  had  sent  one  of  his  servants 
in  to  acquaint  his  worship  that  they  had  taken  two 
robbers  and  brought  them  before  him.  The  justice, 
who  was  just  returned  from  a  fox-chase,  and  had  not 
yet  finished  his  dinner,  ordered  them  to  carry  the 
prisoners  into  the  stable,  whither  they  were  attended 
by  all  the  servants  in  the  house,  and  all  the  people 
in  the  neighbourhood,  who  flocked  together  to  see 
them  with  as  much  curiosity  as  if  there  was  some- 
thing uncommon  to  be  seen,  or  that  a  rogue  did  not 
look  like  other  people. 

The  justice,  now  being  in  the  height  of  his  mirth 
and  his  cups,  bethought  himself  of  the  prisoners ; 
and,  telling  his  company  he  believed  they  should  have 

[210  J 


THE    JUSTICE'S    EXAMINATION 

good  sport  in  their  examination,  he  ordered  them 
into  his  presence.  They  had  no  sooner  entered  the 
room  than  he  began  to  revile  them,  saying,  "That 
robberies  on  the  highway  were  now  grown  so  fre- 
quent, that  people  could  not  sleep  safely  in  their 
beds,  and  assured  them  they  both  should  be  made 
examples  of  at  the  ensuing  assizes."  After  he  had 
gone  on  some  time  in  this  manner,  he  was  reminded 
by  his  clerk,  "  That  it  would  be  proper  to  take  the 
depositions  of  the  witnesses  against  them."  Which 
he  bid  him  do,  and  he  would  light  his  pipe  in  the 
meantime.  Whilst  the  clerk  was  employed  in  writ- 
ing down  the  deposition  of  the  fellow  who  had  pre- 
tended to  be  robbed,  the  justice  employed  himself 
in  cracking  jests  on  poor  Fanny,  in  which  he  was 
seconded  by  all  the  company  at  table.  One  asked, 
"  Whether  she  was  to  be  indicted  for  a  highway- 
man ?  "  Another  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  If  she  had 
not  provided  herself  a  great  belly,  he  was  at  her  ser- 
vice." A  third  said,  "  He  warranted  she  was  a  rela- 
tion of  Turpin."  To  which  one  of  the  company, 
a  great  wit,  shaking  his  head,  and  then  his  sides, 
answered,  "  He  believed  she  was  nearer  related  to 
Turpis;"  at  which  there  was  an  universal  laugh. 
They  were  proceeding  thus  with  the  poor  girl,  when 
somebody,  smoaking  the  cassock  peeping  forth  from 
under  the  greatcoat  of  Adams,  cried  out,  "  What 
have  we  here,  a  parson  ?  "     "  How,  sirrah,"  says  the 

[  211  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

justice,  "do  you  go  robbing  in  the  dress  of  a  clergy- 
man ?  let  me  tell  you  your  habit  will  not  entitle 
you  to  the  benefit  of  the  clergy/"'  "  Yes,"  said  the 
witty  fellow,  "  he  will  have  one  benefit  of  clergy,  he 
will  be  exalted  above  the  heads  of  the  people;*"  at 
which  there  was  a  second  laugh.  And  now  the  witty 
spark,  seeing  his  jokes  take,  began  to  rise  in  spirits ; 
and,  turning  to  Adams,  challenged  him  to  cap  verses, 
and,  provoking  him  by  giving  the  first  blow,  he 
repeated  — 

"  Molle  meum  levibus  cord  est  vilebile  telis. " 

Upon  which  Adams,  with  a  look  full  of  ineffable 
contempt,  told  him,  "  He  deserved  scourging  for  his 
pronunciation."  The  witty  fellow  answered,  "What 
do  you  deserve,  doctor,  for  not  being  able  to  answer 
the  first  time  ?  Why,  I  '11  give  one,  you  blockhead, 
with  an  S. 

"  *  Si  licet,  ut/ulvum  spectalur  in  ignibus  haurum.' 

"  What,  canst  not  with  an  M  neither  ?  Thou  art 
a  pretty  fellow  for  a  parson  !  Why  didst  not  steal 
some  of  the  parson"'s  Latin  as  well  as  his  gown  ? "" 
Another  at  the  table  then  answered,  "  If  he  had,  you 
would  have  been  too  hard  for  him  ;  I  remember  you  at 
the  college  a  very  devil  at  this  sport ;  I  have  seen  you 
catch  a  freshman,  for  nobody  that  knew  you  would 
engage  with  you.""  "  I  have  forgot  those  things  now," 
cried  the  wit.     "  I  believe  I  could  have  done  pretty 

[212] 


CAPPING    VERSES 

well  formerly.  Let 's  see,  what  did  I  end  with  ?  — 
an  M  again  —  aye 

"  '  Mars,  Bacchus,  Apollo,  virorum.' 
I  could  have  done  it  once."  "  Ah  !  evil  betide  you, 
and  so  you  can  now,"  said  the  other :  "  nobody  in 
this  country  will  undertake  you."  Adams  could  hold 
no  longer :  "  Friend,"  said  he,  "  I  have  a  boy  not 
above  eight  years  old  \\ho  would  instruct  thee  that 
the  last  verse  runs  thus  :  — 

"  '■Ut  sunt  Divorum,  Mars,  Bacchus,  Apollo,  viroi'um.''  " 

"  I  '11  hold  thee  a  guinea  of  that,"  said  the  wit, 
throwing  the  money  on  the  table.  "  And  1 11  go 
your  halves,"  cries  the  other.  "  Done,"  answered 
Adams ;  but  upon  applying  to  his  pocket  he  was 
forced  to  retract,  and  own  he  had  no  money  about 
him  ;  which  set  them  all  a-laughing,  and  confirmed  the 
triumph  of  his  adversarv,  which  was  not  moderate, 
any  more  than  the  approbation  he  met  with  from  the 
whole  company,  who  told  Adams  he  must  go  a  little 
longer  to  school  before  he  attempted  to  attack  that 
gentleman  in  Latin. 

The  clerk,  having  finished  the  depositions,  as 
well  of  the  fellow  himself,  as  of  those  who  appre- 
hended the  prisoners,  delivered  them  to  the  jus- 
tice ;  who,  having  sworn  the  several  witnesses 
without  reading  a  syllable,  ordered  his  clerk  to 
make  the  mittimus. 

[213] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Adams  then  said,  "  He  hoped  he  should  not  be 
condemned  unheard."  "No,  no,"  cries  the  justice, 
"  you  will  be  asked  what  you  have  to  say  for  your- 
self when  you  come  on  your  trial :  we  are  not  trying 
you  now ;  I  shall  only  commit  you  to  gaol :  if  you 
can  prove  your  innocence  at  'size,  you  will  be  found 
ignoramus,  and  so  no  harm  done."  "  Is  it  no 
punishment,  sir,  for  an  innocent  man  to  lie  several 
months  in  gaol?"  cries  Adams:  "I  beg  you  would 
at  least  hear  me  before  you  sign  the  mittimus." 
"  \Vliat  signifies  all  you  can  say  ?  "  says  the  justice : 
"  is  it  not  here  in  black  and  white  against  you  ?  I 
must  tell  you  you  are  a  very  impertinent  fellow  to 
take  up  so  much  of  my  time.  So  make  haste  with 
his  mittimus." 

The  clerk  now  acquainted  the  justice  that  among 
other  suspicious  things,  as  a  penknife,  &c.,  found  in 
Adams's  pocket,  they  had  discovered  a  book  written, 
as  he  apprehended,  in  cyphers;  for  no  one  could 
read  a  word  in  it.  "Aye,"  says  the  justice,  "the 
fellow  may  be  more  than  a  common  robber,  he  may 
be  in  a  plot  against  the  Government.  Produce  the 
book."  Upon  which  the  poor  manuscript  of  iEschylus, 
which  Adams  had  transcribed  with  his  own  hand, 
was  brought  forth  ;  and  the  justice,  looking  at  it, 
shook  his  head,  and,  turning  to  the  prisoner,  asked 
the  meaning  of  those  cyphers.  "  Cyphers.? "  answered 
Adams,  "  it  is  a  manuscript  of  vEschylus."     "  Who  ? 

[214  J 


THE    MANUSCRIPT    OF    AESCHYLUS 

who  ?■"  said  the  justice.  Adams  repeated,  "  iEschylus.'' 
"  That  is  an  outlandish  name,"  cried  the  clerk.  "  A 
fictitious  name  rather,  I  believe,"  said  the  justice. 
One  of  the  company  declared  it  looked  very  much 
like  Greek.  "  Greek  ?"  said  the  justice  ;  "  why,  't  is 
all  writing."  "  No,"  says  the  other,  "  I  don't  posi- 
tively say  it  is  so;  for  it  is  a  very  long  time  since 
I  have  seen  any  Greek."  "There's  one,"  says  he, 
turning  to  the  parson  of  the  parish,  who  was  present, 
"  will  tell  us  innnediately."  The  parson,  taking  up 
the  book,  and  putting  on  his  spectacles  and  gravity 
tos-ether,  muttered  some  words  to  himself,  and  then 
pronounced  aloud  — "  Aye,  indeed,  it  is  a  Greek 
manuscript;  a  very  fine  piece  of  antiquity.  I  make 
no  doubt  but  it  was  stolen  from  the  same  clergyman 
from  whom  the  rogue  took  the  cassock."  "  What 
did  the  rascal  mean  by  his  yEschylus  ? "  says  the 
justice.  "  Pooh  !  "  answered  the  doctor,  with  a  con- 
temptuous grin,  "do  you  think  that  fellow  knows 
anything  of  this  book  ?  .Eschylus  !  ho  !  ho  !  I  see 
now  what  it  is  —  a  manuscript  of  one  of  the  fathers. 
I  know  a  nobleman  who  would  give  a  great  deal  of 
money  for  such  a  piece  of  antiquity.  Aye,  aye,  ques- 
tion and  answer.  The  beginning  is  the  catechism  in 
Greek.     Aye,  aye,  Pollaki  toi :  \Vhafs  your  name .? " 

"  Aye,  what 's  your  name .?  "  says  the  justice  to 

Adams  ;  who  answered,  "  It  is  ^schylus,  and  I  will 
maintain    it."  —  "  Oh !    it    is,"    says    the    justice : 

[215] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

"  make  Mr.  ^Eschylus  his    mittimus.     I  will  teach 
jou  to  banter  me  with  a  false  name."" 

One  of  the  company,  having  looked  steadfastly  at 
Adams,  asked  him,  "  If  he  did  not  know  Lady 
Booby  ? ""  Upon  which  Adams,  presently  calling 
him  to  mind,  answered  in  a  rapture,  "  O  squire !  are 
you  there  ?  I  believe  you  will  inform  his  worship  I 
am  innocent." — "  I  can  indeed  say,'"  replied  the  squire, 
"  that  I  am  very  much  surprized  to  see  you  in  this 
situation:"  and  then,  addressing  himself  to  the 
justice,  he  said,  "  Sir,  I  assure  you  Mr.  Adams  is  a 
clergyman,  as  he  appears,  and  a  gentleman  of  a  very 
good  character.  I  wish  you  would  enquire  a  little 
forther  into  this  affair ;  for  I  am  convinced  of  his 
innocence."  —  "Nay,"  says  the  justice,  "if  he  is  a 
gentleman,  and  you  are  sure  he  is  innocent,  I  don't 
desire  to  commit  him,  not  I :  I  will  commit  the 
woman  by  herself,  and  take  your  bail  for  the  gentle- 
man :  look  into  the  book,  clerk,  and  see  how  it  is  to 
take  bail  —  come  —  and  make  the  mittimus  for  the 
woman  as  fast  as  you  can."  —  "  Sir,"  cries  Adams, 
"  I  assure  you  she  is  as  innocent  as  myself."  — 
"  Perhaps,"  said  the  squire,  "  there  may  be  some 
mistake  !  pray  let  us  hear  Mr.  Adams's  relation."  — 
"With  all  my  heart,"  answered  the  justice;  "and 
give  the  gentleman  a  glass  to  wet  his  whistle  before 
he  begins.  I  know  how  to  behave  myself  to  gen- 
tlemen as  well  as  another.     Nobody  can  say  I  have 

[216] 


THE    DISMISSAL 

committed  a  gentleman  since  I  have  been  in  the  com- 
mission."" Adams  then  began  the  narrative,  in  which, 
though  he  was  very  prolix,  he  was  uninterrupted 
unless  by  several  hums  and  hahs  of  the  justice,  and 
his  desire  to  repeat  those  parts  which  seemed  to  him 
most  material.  When  he  had  finished,  the  justice, 
who,  on  what  the  squire  had  said,  believed  every 
syllable  of  his  story  on  his  bare  affirmation,  notwith- 
standing the  depositions  on  oath  to  the  contrary, 
began  to  let  loose  several  rogues  and  rascals  against 
the  witness,  whom  he  ordered  to  stand  forth,  but  in 
vain;  the  said  witness,  long  since  finding  what  turn 
matters  were  likely  to  take,  had  privily  withdrawn 
without  attending  the  issue.  The  justice  now  flew 
into  a  violent  passion,  and  was  hardly  prevailed  with 
not  to  commit  the  innocent  fellows  who  had  been  im- 
posed on  as  well  as  himself.  He  swore,  "  They  had 
best  find  out  the  fellow  who  was  guilty  of  perjury, 
and  bring  him  before  him  within  two  days,  or  he 
would  bind  them  all  over  to  their  good  behavioui-."" 
They  all  promised  to  use  their  best  endeavours  to 
that  purpose,  and  were  dismissed.  Then  the  justice 
insisted  that  Mr.  Adams  should  sit  down  and  take 
a  glass  with  him  ;  and  the  parson  of  the  parish 
delivered  him  back  the  manuscript  without  saying  a 
word ;  nor  would  Adams,  who  plainly  discerned  his 
ignorance,  expose  it.  As  for  Fanny,  she  was,  at  her 
own  request,  recommended  to   the  care  of  a  maid- 

[217] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

servant  of  the  house,  who  helped  her  to  new  dress 
and  clean  herself. 

The  company  in  the  parlour  had  not  been  long 
seated  before  they  were  alarmed  with  a  horrible 
uproar  from  without,  where  the  persons  who  had 
apprehended  Adams  and  Fanny  had  been  regaling, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  house,  with  the 
justice"'s  strong  beer.  These  w^ere  all  fallen  together 
by  the  ears,  and  were  cuffing  each  other  without  any 
mercy.  The  justice  himself  sallied  out,  and  with  the 
dignity  of  his  presence  soon  put  an  end  to  the  frsiy. 
On  his  return  into  the  parlour,  he  reported,  "  That 
the  occasion  of  the  quarrel  was  no  other  than  a  dis- 
pute to  whom,  if  Adams  had  been  convicted,  the 
greater  share  of  the  reward  for  apprehending  hira 
had  belonged."  All  the  company  laughed  at  this, 
except  Adams,  who,  taking  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  fetched  a  deep  groan,  and  said,  "  He  was 
concerned  to  see  so  litigious  a  temper  in  men.  That 
he  remembered  a  story  something  like  it  in  one  of 
the  parishes  where  his  cure  lay :  —  There  was,"  con- 
tinued he,  "  a  competition  between  three  young  fel- 
lows for  the  place  of  the  clerk,  which  I  disposed  of, 
to  the  best  of  my  abilities,  according  to  merit ;  that 
is,  I  gave  it  to  him  who  had  the  happiest  knack  at 
setting  a  psalm.  The  clerk  was  no  sooner  established 
in  his  place  than  a  contention  began  between  the  two 
disappointed  candidates  concerning  their  excellence ; 

[218] 


A    DISPUTE 

each  contendinjx  on  whom,  had  thev  two  been  the 
only  competitors,  my  election  would  have  fallen. 
This  dispute  frequently  disturbed  the  congregation, 
and  introduced  a  discord  into  the  psalmody,  till  I  was 
forced  to  silence  them  both.  But,  alas  !  the  litigious 
spirit  could  not  be  stifled  ;  and,  being  no  longer  able 
to  vent  itself  in  singing,  it  now  broke  forth  in  fight- 
ing. It  produced  many  battles  (for  they  were  very 
near  a  match),  and  I  believe  would  have  ended  fatally, 
had  not  the  death  of  the  clerk  given  me  an  oppor- 
tunity to  promote  one  of  them  to  his  place ;  which 
presently  put  an  end  to  the  dispute,  and  entirely 
reconciled  the  contending  parties."  Adams  then  pro- 
ceeded to  make  some  philosophical  observations  on  the 
folly  of  growing  warm  in  disputes  in  which  neither 
party  is  interested.  He  then  applied  himself  vigor- 
ously to  smoaking  ;  and  a  long  silence  ensued,  which 
was  at  length  broke  by  the  justice,  who  began  to 
sing  forth  his  own  praises,  and  to  value  himself 
exceedinslv  on  his  nice  discernment  in  the  cause 
which  had  lately  been  before  him.  He  was  quickly 
interrupted  by  Mr.  Adams,  between  whom  and  his 
worship  a  dispute  now  arose,  whether  he  ought  not, 
in  strictness  of  law,  to  have  committed  him,  the  said 
Adams  ;  in  which  the  latter  maintained  he  ought  to 
have  been  committed,  and  the  justice  as  vehemently 
held  he  ought  not.  This  had  most  probably  pro- 
duced   a   quarrel    (for  both  were   very    violent    and 

[219] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

positive  in  their  opinions),  had  not  Fanny  accident- 
ally heard  that  a  young  fellow  was  going  from  the 
justice's  house  to  the  very  inn  where  the  stage-coach 
in  which  Joseph  was,  put  up.  Upon  this  news,  she 
immediately  sent  for  the  parson  out  of  the  parlour. 
Adams,  when  he  found  her  resolute  to  go  (though 
she  would  not  own  the  reason,  but  pretended  she 
could  not  bear  to  see  the  faces  of  those  who  had 
suspected  her  of  such  a  crime),  was  as  fully  deter- 
mined to  go  with  her ;  he  accordingly  took  leave  of 
the  justice  and  company  :  and  so  ended  a  dispute  in 
which  the  law  seemed  shamefully  to  intend  to  set  a 
magistrate  and  a  divine  together  by  the  ears. 


[220] 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

A  VERY  DELIGHTFUL  ADVENTURE,  AS  WELL  TO  THE 
PERSONS  CONCERNED  AS  TO  THE  GOOD-NATURED 
READER. 

]A  DAMS,  Fanny,  and  the  guide,  set  out  to- 
/^k        gether  about  one  in  the  morning,    the 

/  ^^  moon  being  then  just  risen.  They  had 
^^  ^^  not  gone  above  a  mile  before  a  most 
violent  storm  of  rain  obliged  them  to  take  shelter  in 
an  inn,  or  rather  alehouse,  where  Adams  immediately 
procured  himself  a  good  fire,  a  toast  and  ale,  and  a 
pipe,  and  began  to  smoak  with  great  content,  utterly 
forgetting  everything  that  had  happened. 

Fanny  sat  likewise  down  by  the  fire ;  but  was  much 
more  impatient  at  the  storm.  She  presently  engaged 
the  eyes  of  the  host,  his  wife,  the  maid  of  the  house, 
and  the  young  fellow  who  was  their  guide ;  they  all 
conceived  they  had  never  seen  anything  half  so  hand- 
some ;  and  indeed,  reader,  if  thou  art  of  an  amorous 
hue,  I  advise  thee  to  skip  over  the  next  paragraph  ; 
which,  to  render  our  history  perfect,  we  are  obliged 
to  set  down,  humbly  hoping  that  we  may  escape  the 
fate  of  Pygmalion  ;  for  if  it  should  happen  to  us,  or 

[  221  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

to  thee,  to  be  struck  with  this  picture,  we  should  be 
perhaps  in  as  helpless  a  condition  as  Narcissus,  and 
might  say  to  ourselves.  Quod  petis  est  nusqiuim.     Or, 

if  the  finest  features  in  it  should  set  Lady 's 

image  before  our  eyes,  we  should  be  still  in  as  bad  a 
situation,  and  might  say  to  our  desires,  Caelum  ipsum 
petirmis  stultitia. 

Fanny  was  now  in  the  nineteenth  year  of  her  age ; 
she  was  tall  and  delicately  shaped  ;  but  not  one  of 
those  slender  young  women  who  seem  rather  intended 
to  hang  up  in  the  hall  of  an  anatomist  than  for  any 
other  purpose.  On  the  contrary,  she  Avas  so  plump 
that  she  seemed  bursting  through  her  tight  stays, 
especially  in  the  part  which  confined  her  swelling 
breasts.  Nor  did  her  hips  want  the  assistance  of  a 
hoop  to  extend  them.  The  exact  shape  of  her  arms 
denoted  the  form  of  those  limbs  which  she  concealed  ; 
and  though  they  were  a  little  reddened  by  her  labour, 
yet,  if  her  sleeve  slipped  above  her  elbow,  or  her 
handkerchief  discovered  any  part  of  her  neck,  a  white- 
ness appeared  which  the  finest  Italian  paint  Mould  be 
unable  to  reach.  Her  hair  was  of  a  chesnut  brown, 
and  nature  had  been  extremely  lavish  to  her  of  it, 
which  she  had  cut,  and  on  Sundays  used  to  curl  down 
her  neck,  in  the  modern  fashion.  Her  forehead  was 
high,  her  eyebrows  arched,  and  rather  full  than  other- 
wise. Her  eyes  black  and  sparkling ;  her  nose  just 
inclining  to  the  Roman  ;  her  lips  red  and  moist,  and 

[222  ] 


THE    SONG 

her  under-lip,  according  to  the  opinion  of  the  ladies, 
too  pouting.  Her  teeth  were  white,  but  not  exactly 
even.  The  small-pox  had  left  one  only  mark  on  her 
chin,  which  was  so  large,  it  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  a  dimple,  had  not  her  left  cheek  produced  one  so 
near  a  neighbour  to  it,  that  the  former  served  only 
for  a  foil  to  the  latter.  Her  complexion  was  fair,  a 
little  injured  by  the  sun,  but  overspread  with  such 
a  bloom  that  the  finest  ladies  would  have  exchanged 
all  their  white  for  it:  add  to  these  a  countenance  in 
w^hich,  though  she  was  extremely  bashful,  a  sensibility 
appeared  almost  incredible;  and  a  sweetness,  when- 
ever she  smiled,  beyond  either  imitation  or  descrip- 
tion. To  conclu  all,  she  had  a  natural  gentility, 
superior  to  the  acquisition  of  art,  and  which  surprized 
all  who  beheld  her. 

This  lovely  creature  was  sitting  by  the  fire  with 
Adams,  when  her  attention  was  suddenly  engaged  by 
a  voice  from  an  inner  room,  which  sung  the  following 

song :  — 

THE  SONG. 

Say,  Chloe,  where  must  the  swain  stray 

Who  is  by  thy  beauties  undone  ? 
To  wash  their  remembrance  away. 

To  what  distant  Lethe  must  run  ? 
The  wretch  who  is  sentenced  to  die 

May  escape,  and  leave  justice  behind  ; 
From  his  country  perhaps  he  may  fly, 

But  oh  !  can  he  fly  from  his  mind  ? 

O  rapture  !  unthought  of  before. 
To  be  thus  of  Chloe  possess'd ; 

[223] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Nor  she,  nor  no  tyrant's  hard  power. 
Her  image  can  tear  from  my  breast. 

But  felt  not  Narcissus  more  joy. 

With  his  eyes  he  beheld  his  loved  charms? 

Yet  what  he  beheld  the  fond  boy 
More  eagerly  wish'd  in  his  arms. 

How  can  it  thy  dear  image  be 

Which  fills  thus  my  bosom  with  woe  ? 
Can  aught  bear  resemblance  to  thee 

Which  grief  and  not  joy  can  bestow  ? 
This  counterfeit  snatch  from  my  heart, 

Ye  pow'rs,  tho'  with  torment  I  rave, 
Tho'  mortal  will  prove  the  fell  smart : 

I  then  shall  find  rest  in  my  grave. 

Ah,  see  the  dear  nymph  o'er  the  plain 

Come  smiling  and  tripping  along  ! 
A  thousand  Loves  dance  in  her  train. 

The  Graces  around  her  all  throng. 
To  meet  her  soft  Zephyrus  flies. 

And  wafts  all  the  sweets  from  the  flowerSi 
Ah,  rogue  !  whilst  he  kisses  her  eyes. 

More  sweets  from  her  breath  he  devours. 

My  soul,  whilst  I  gaze,  is  on  fire  : 

But  her  looks  were  so  tender  and  kind. 
My  hope  almost  reach'd  my  desire. 

And  left  lame  despair  far  behind. 
Transported  with  madness,  I  flew. 

And  eagerly  seized  on  my  bliss  ; 
Her  bosom  but  half  she  withdrew. 

But  half  she  refused  ray  fond  kiss. 

Advances  like  these  made  me  bold  ; 

I  whisper 'd  her  —  Love,  we  're  alone.  — 
The  rest  let  immortals  unfold ; 

No  language  can  tell  but  their  own. 
Ah,  Chloe,  expiring,  I  cried. 

How  long  I  thy  cruelty  bore  ! 
Ah,  Strephon,  she  blushing  replied. 

You  ne'er  was  so  pressing  before. 

[224] 


A    JOYFUL    MEETING 

Adams  had  been  ruminating  all  this  time  on  a 
passage  in  iEschylus,  without  attending  in  the  least 
to  the  voice,  though  one  of  the  most  melodious  that 
ever  was  heard,  when,  casting  his  eyes  on  Fanny,  he 
cried  out,  "  Bless  us,  you  look  extremely  pale  !  "  — 
"  Pale  !  Mr.  Adams,"  says  she ;  "  O  Jesus  !  "  and  fell 
backwards  in  her  chair.  Adams  jumped  up,  flung 
his  JEschylus  into  the  fire,  and  fell  a-roaring  to  the 
people  of  the  house  for  help.  He  soon  summoned 
every  one  into  the  room,  and  the  songster  among  the 
rest ;  but,  O  reader !  when  this  nightingale,  who  was 
no  other  than  Joseph  Andrews  himself,  saw  his  be- 
loved Fanny  in  the  situation  we  have  described  her, 
canst  thou  conceive  the  agitations  of  his  mind  ?  If 
thou  canst  not,  waive  that  meditation  to  behold  his 
happiness,  when,  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  he  found 
life  and  blood  returning  into  her  cheeks  :  when  he  saw 
her  open  her  beloved  eyes,  and  heard  her  with  the 
softest  accent  whisper,  "  Are  you  Joseph  Andrews  ?  " 
— "  Art  thou  my  Fanny  ?  "  he  answered  eagerly  : 
and,  pulling  her  to  his  heart,  he  imprinted  number- 
less kisses  on  her  lips,  without  considering  who  were 
present. 

If  prudes  are  offended  at  the  lusciousness  of  this 
picture,  they  may  take  their  eyes  off  from  it,  and 
survey  parson  Adams  dancing  about  the  room  in  a 
rapture  of  joy.  Some  philosophers  may  perhaps 
doubt  whether  he  was  not  the  happiest  of  the  three : 
VOL.  I.  -  15  [  225  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

for  the  goodness  of  his  heart  enjoyed  the  blessings 
which  were  exulting  in  the  breasts  of  both  the  other 
two,  together  with  his  own.  But  we  shall  leave  such 
disquisitions,  as  too  deep  for  us,  to  those  who  are 
building  some  favourite  hypothesis,  which  they  will 
refuse  no  metaphysical  rubbish  to  erect  and  support : 
for  our  part,  we  give  it  clearly  on  the  side  of  Joseph, 
whose  happiness  was  not  only  greater  than  the  par- 
son's, but  of  longer  duration  :  for  as  soon  as  the  first 
tumults  of  Adams's  rapture  were  over  he  cast  his 
eyes  towards  the  fire,  where  ^schylus  lay  expiring  ; 
and  immediately  rescued  the  poor  remains,  to  wit, 
the  sheepskin  covering,  of  his  dear  friend,  which  was 
the  work  of  his  own  hands,  and  had  been  his  insepa- 
rable companion  for  upwards  of  thirty  years. 

Fanny  had  no  sooner  perfectly  recovered  herself 
than  she  began  to  restrain  the  impetuosity  of  her 
transports  ;  and,  reflecting  on  what  she  had  done  and 
suffered  in  the  presence  of  so  many,  she  was  imme- 
diately covered  with  confusion  ;  and,  pushing  Joseph 
gently  from  her,  she  begged  him  to  be  quiet,  nor 
would  admit  of  either  kiss  or  embrace  any  longer. 
Then,  seeing  Mrs.  Slipslop,  she  curtsied,  and  offered 
to  advance  to  her ;  but  that  high  woman  would  not 
return  her  curtsies  ;  but,  casting  her  eyes  another  way, 
immediately  withdrew  into  another  room,  muttering, 
as  she  went,  she  wondered  who  the  creature  was. 

[  226  ] 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

A  DISSERTATION  CONCERNING  HIGH  PEOPLE  AND  LOW 
PEOPLE,  WITH  MRS.  SLIPSLOP's  DEPARTURE  IN  NO 
VERY  GOOD  TEMPER  OF  MIND,  AND  THE  EVIL 
PLIGHT  IN  WHICH  SHE  LEFT  ADAMS  AND  HIS 
COMPANY. 

IT  will  doubtless  seem  extremely  odd  to  many 
readers,  that  Mrs.  Slipslop,  who  had  lived 
several  years  in  the  same  house  with  Fanny, 
should,  in  a  short  separation,  utterly  forget 
her.  And  indeed  the  truth  is,  that  she  remembered 
her  very  well.  As  we  would  not  willingly,  therefore, 
that  anything  should  appear  unnatural  in  this  our 
history,  we  will  endeavour  to  explain  the  reasons  of 
her  conduct ;  nor  do  we  doubt  being  able  to  satisfy 
the  most  curious  reader  that  Mrs.  Slipslop  did  not  in 
the  least  deviate  from  the  common  road  in  this  be- 
haviour; and,  indeed,  had  she  done  otherwise,  she 
must  have  descended  below  herself,  and  would  have 
very  justly  been  liable  to  censure. 

Be  it  known  then, that  the  human  speciesare  divided 
into  two  sorts  of  people,  to  wit,  high  people  and  low 
people.     As  by  high  people  I  would  not  be  under- 

[227] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

stood  to  mean  persons  literally  born  higher  in  their 
dimensions  than  the  rest  of  the  species,  nor  meta- 
pliorically  those  of  exalted  characters  or  abilities  ; 
so  by  low  people  I  cannot  be  construed  to  intend  the 
reverse.  High  people  signify  no  other  than  people 
of  fashion,  and  low  people  those  of  no  fashion.  Now, 
this  word  fashion  hath  by  long  use  lost  its  original 
meaning,  from  which  at  present  it  gives  us  a  very 
different  idea  ;  for  I  am  deceived  if  by  persons  of 
fashion  we  do  not  generally  include  a  conception  of 
birth  and  accomplishments  superior  to  the  herd 
of  mankind ;  whereas,  in  reality,  nothing  more  was 
originally  meant  by  a  person  of  fashion  than  a  person 
who  drest  himself  in  the  fashion  of  the  times  ;  and 
the  word  really  and  truly  signifies  no  more  at  this 
day.  Now,  the  world  being  thus  divided  into  people 
of  fashion  and  people  of  no  fashion,  a  fierce  conten- 
tion arose  between  them  ;  nor  would  those  of  one 
party,  to  avoid  suspicion,  be  seen  publickly  to  speak 
to  those  of  the  other,  though  they  often  held  a  very 
good  correspondence  in  private.  In  this  contention 
it  is  difficult  to  say  which  party  succeeded  ;  for,  whilst 
the  people  of  fashion  seized  several  places  to  their 
own  use,  such  as  courts,  assemblies,  operas,  balls, 
&c.,  the  people  of  no  fashion,  besides  one  royal  place, 
called  his  Majesty's  Bear-garden,  have  been  in  con- 
stant possession  of  all  hops,  fairs,  revels,  &c.  Two 
places  have  been  agreed  to  be  divided  between  them, 

[  228] 


HIGH   AND   LOW   PEOPLE 

namely,  the  church  and  the  playhouse,  where  they 
segregate  themselves  from  each  other  in  a  remarkable 
manner;  for,  as  the  people  of  fashion  exalt  them- 
selves at  church  over  the  heads  of  the  people  of  no 
fashion,  so  in  the  playhouse  they  abase  themselves  in 
the  same  degree  under  their  feet.  This  distinction 
I  have  never  met  with  any  one  able  to  account  for  : 
it  is  sufficient  that,  so  far  from  looking  on  each  other 
as  brethren  in  the  Christian  language,  they  seem 
scarce  to  regard  each  other  as  of  the  same  species. 
This,  the  terms  "  strange  persons,  people  one  does 
not  know,  the  creature,  wretches,  beasts,  brutes," 
and  many  other  appellations  evidently  demonstrate  ; 
which  Mrs.  Slipslop,  having  often  heard  her  mistress 
use,  thought  she  had  also  a  right  to  use  in  her  turn ; 
and  perhaps  she  was  not  mistaken  ;  for  these  two 
parties,  especially  those  bordering  nearly  on  each 
other,  to  wit,  the  lowest  of  the  high,  and  the  highest 
of  the  low,  often  change  their  parties  according  to 
place  and  time  ;  for  those  who  are  people  of  fashion 
in  one  place  are  often  people  of  no  fashion  in  another. 
And  with  regard  to  time,  it  may  not  be  unpleasant 
to  survey  the  picture  of  dependance  like  a  kind  of 
ladder  ;  as,  for  instance  ;  early  in  the  morning  arises 
the  postillion,  or  some  other  boy,  which  great 
families,  no  more  than  great  ships,  are  without,  and 
falls  to  brushing  the  clothes  and  cleaning  the  shoes 
of  John    the    footman ;    who,    being   drest  himself, 

[  229  ]- 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

applies  his  hands  to  the  same  labours  for  Mr.  Second- 
hand, the  squire's  gentleman  ;  the  gentleman  in  the 
like  manner,  a  little  later  in  the  day,  attends  the 
squire  ;  the  squire  is  no  sooner  equipped  than  he 
attends  the  levee  of  my  lord  ;  which  is  no  sooner  over 
than  mv  lord  himself  is  seen  at  the  levee  of  the 
favourite,  who,  after  the  hour  of  homage  is  at  an 
end,  appears  himself  to  pay  homage  to  the  levee  of 
his  sovereign.  Nor  is  there,  perhaps,  in  this  whole 
ladder  of  dependance,  any  one  step  at  a  greater 
distance  from  the  other  than  the  first  from  the 
second ;  so  that  to  a  philosopher  the  question  might 
only  seem,  whether  you  would  chuse  to  be  a  great 
man  at  six  in  the  morning,  or  at  two  in  the  after- 
noon. And  yet  there  are  scarce  two  of  these  who 
do  not  think  the  least  familiarity  with  the  persons 
below  them  a  condescension,  and,  if  they  were  to  go 
one  step  farther,  a  degradation. 

And  now,  reader,  I  hope  thou  wilt  pardon  this 
long  digression,  which  seemed  to  me  necessary  to 
vindicate  the  great  character  of  Mrs.  Slipslop  from 
what  low  people,  who  have  never  seen  high  people, 
might  think  an  absurdity  ;  but  we  who  know  them 
must  have  daily  found  very  high  persons  know  us  in 
one  place  and  not  in  another,  to-day  and  not  to- 
morrow ;  all  which  it  is  difficult  to  account  for  other- 
wise than  I  have  here  endeavoured  ;  and  perhaps,  if 
the  gods,  according  to  the  opinion  of  some,  made 

[230] 


MRS.    SLIPSLOP'S    STORY 

men  only  to  laugh  at  them,  there  is  no  part  of  our 
behaviour  which  answers  the  end  of  our  creation 
better  than  this. 

But  to  return  to  our  history  :  Adams,  who  knew  no 
more  of  this  than  the  cat  which  sat  on  the  table,  imag- 
ining Mrs.  Slipslop''s  memory  had  been  much  worse 
than  it  really  was,  followed  her  into  the  next  room, 
crying  out,  "  ^ladam  Slipslop,  here  is  one  of  your 
old  acquaintance  ;  do  but  see  what  a  fine  woman  she 
is  grown  since  she  left  Lady  Booby's  service."  —  "I 
think  I  reflect  something  of  her,""  answered  she,  with 
great  dignity,  "  but  I  can't  remember  all  the  inferior 
servants  in  our  ftimily."  She  then  proceeded  to 
satisfy  Adams's  curiosity,  by  telling  him,  "  When  she 
arrived  at  the  inn,  she  found  a  chaise  ready  for  her; 
that,  her  lady  being  expected  very  shortly  in  the 
country,  she  was  obliged  to  make  the  utmost  haste ; 
and,  in  commensuration  of  Joseph's  lameness,  she 
had  taken  him  with  her;"  and  lastlv,  "that  the 
excessive  virulence  of  the  storm  had  driven  them  into 
the  house  where  he  found  them."  After  which,  she 
acquainted  Adams  with  his  having  left  his  horse,  and 
exprest  some  wonder  at  his  having  strayed  so  far 
out  of  his  way,  and  at  meeting  him,  as  she  said,  "  in 
the  company  of  that  wench,  who  she  feared  was  no 
better  than  she  should  be." 

The  horse  was  no  sooner  put  into  Adams's  head  but 
he  was  immediately  driven  out  by  this  reflection  on 

[231  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

the  character  of  Fanny.  He  protested,  "  He  be- 
lieved there  was  not  a  chaster  damsel  in  the  universe. 
I  heartily  wish,  I  heartily  wish,"  cried  he  (snapping 
his  fingers),  "that  all  her  betters  were  as  good." 
He  then  proceeded  to  inform  her  of  the  accident  of 
their  meeting;  but  when  he  came  to  mention  the 
circumstance  of  delivering  her  from  the  rape,  she 
said,  "  She  thought  him  properer  for  the  army  than 
the  clergy ;  that  it  did  not  become  a  clergyman 
to  lay  violent  hands  on  any  one ;  that  he  should 
have  rather  prayed  that  she  might  be  strength- 
ened." Adams  said,  "  He  was  very  far  from  being 
ashamed  of  what  he  had  done :  "  she  replied,  "  Want 
of  shame  was  not  the  currycuristic  of  a  clergyman." 
This  dialogue  might  have  probably  grown  warmer, 
had  not  Joseph  opportunely  entered  the  room,  to 
ask  leave  of  Madam  Slipslop  to  introduce  Fanny  : 
but  she  positively  refused  to  adnut  any  such  trol- 
lops, and  told  him,  "She  would  have  been  burnt 
before  she  would  have  suffered  him  to  get  into  a 
chaise  with  her,  if  she  had  once  respected  him  of 
having  his  sluts  waylaid  on  the  road  for  him  ;"  add- 
ing, "  that  Mr.  Adams  acted  a  very  pretty  part,  and 
she  did  not  doubt  but  to  see  him  a  bishop."  He 
made  the  best  bow  he  could,  and  cried  out,  "  I  thank 
you,  madam,  for  that  right-reverend  appellation, 
which  I  shall  take  all  honest  means  to  deserve."  — 
"  Very  honest   means,"  returned    she,  with  a  sneer, 

[  232  ] 


MRS.    SLIPSLOP    ENRAGED 

"  to  bring  people  together.'"'  At  these  words  Adams 
took  two  or  three  strides  across  the  room,  when  the 
coachman  came  to  inform  Mrs.  Slipslop,  "That  the 
storm  was  over,  and  the  moon  shone  very  bright."" 
She  then  sent  for  Joseph,  who  was  sitting  without 
with  his  Fanny,  and  would  have  had  him  gone  with 
her ;  but  he  peremptorily  refused  to  leave  Fanny 
behind,  which  threw  the  good  woman  into  a  violent 
rage.  She  said,  "  She  would  inform  her  lady  what 
doings  were  carrying  on,  and  did  not  doubt  but  she 
would  rid  the  parish  of  all  such  people  ; "  and  con- 
cluded a  long  speech,  full  of  bitterness  and  very  hard 
words,  with  some  reflections  on  the  clergy  not  decent 
to  repeat;  at  last,  finding  Joseph  unmoveable,  she  flung 
herself  into  the  chaise,  casting  a  look  at  Fanny  as  she 
went,  not  unlike  that  which  Cleopatra  gives  Octavia 
in  the  play.  To  say  the  truth,  she  was  most  disagree- 
ably disappointed  by  the  presence  of  Fanny  :  she 
had,  from  her  first  seeing  Joseph  at  the  inn,  con- 
ceived hopes  of  something  which  might  have  been 
accomplished  at  an  alehouse  as  well  as  a  palace. 
Indeed,  it  is  probable  Mr.  Adams  had  rescued 
more  than  Fanny  from  the  danger  of  a  rape  that 
evening. 

When  the  chaise  had  carried  off"  the  enraged  Slip- 
slop, Adams,  Joseph,  and  Fanny  assembled  over  the 
fire,  where  they  had  a  great  deal  of  innocent  chat, 
pretty    enough ;    but,  as  possibly    it  would   not  be 

[233] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

very  entertaining  to  the  reader,  we  shall  hasten  to 
the  morning  ;  only  observing  that  none  of  them  went 
to  bed  that  night.  Adams,  when  he  had  smoaked 
three  pipes,  took  a  comfortable  nap  in  a  great  chair, 
and  left  the  lovers,  whose  eyes  were  too  well  em- 
ployed to  permit  any  desire  of  shutting  them,  to 
enjoy  by  themselves,  during  some  hours,  an  happiness 
which  none  of  my  readers  who  have  never  been  in 
love  are  capable  of  the  least  conception  of,  though 
we  had  as  many  tongues  as  Homer  desired,  to  describe 
it  with,  and  which  all  true  lovers  will  represent 
to  their  own  minds  without  the  least  assistance 
from  us. 

Let  it  suffice  then  to  say,  that  Fanny,  after  a 
thousand  entreaties,  at  last  gave  up  her  whole  soul 
to  Joseph  ;  and,  almost  fainting  in  his  arms,  with 
a  sigh  infinitely  softer  and  sweeter  too  than  any 
Arabian  breeze,  she  whispered  to  his  lips,  which  were 
then  close  to  hers,  "  O  Joseph,  you  have  won  me  : 
I  will  be  yours  for  ever."  Joseph,  having  thanked 
her  on  his  knees,  and  embraced  her  with  an  eagerness 
which  she  now  almost  returned,  leapt  up  in  a  rapture, 
and  awakened  the  parson,  earnestly  begging  him 
"that  he  would  that  instant  join  their  hands  to- 
gether." Adams  rebuked  him  for  his  request,  and 
told  him  "  He  would  by  no  means  consent  to  anything 
contrary  to  the  forms  of  the  Church  ;  that  he  had  no 
licence,  nor  indeed  would  he  advise  him  to  obtain  one ; 

[234] 


AN    EVIL    PLIGHT 

that  the  Church  had  prescribed  a  form  —  namely,  the 
publication  of  bainis  —  with  which  all  good  Christians 
ought  to  comply,  and  to  the  omission  of  which  he 
attributed  the  many  miseries  which  befell  great  folks 
in  marriage;"  concluding,  "As  many  as  are  joined 
toijether  otherwise  than  G — ^s  word  doth  allow  are 
not  joined  together  by  G — ,  neither  is  their  matri- 
mony lawful."  Fanny  agreed  with  the  parson,  saying 
to  Joseph,  with  a  blush,  "  She  assured  him  she  would 
not  consent  to  any  such  thing,  and  that  she  wondered 
at  his  offering  it."'  In  which  resolution  she  was 
comforted  and  commended  by  Adams ;  and  Joseph 
was  obliged  to  wait  patiently  till  after  the  third 
publication  of  the  banns,  which,  however,  he  obtained 
the  consent  of  Fanny,  in  the  presence  of  Adams,  to 
put  in  at  their  arrival. 

The  sun  had  been  now  risen  some  hours,  when 
Joseph,  finding  his  leg  surprizingly  recovered,  pro- 
posed to  walk  forwards ;  but  when  they  were  all 
ready  to  set  out,  an  accident  a  little  retarded  them. 
This  was  no  other  than  the  reckoning,  which 
amounted  to  seven  shillings ;  no  great  sum  if  we 
consider  the  immense  quantity  of  ale  which  Mr. 
Adams  poured  in.  Indeed,  they  had  no  objection  to 
the  reasonableness  of  the  bill,  but  many  to  the  prob- 
ability of  paying  it ;  for  the  fellow  who  had  taken 
poor  Fanny's  purse  had  unluckily  forgot  to  return  it. 
So  that  the  account  stood  thus  :  — 

[235] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 


Mr.  Adams  and  company.  Dr. 

In  Mr.  Adams's  pocket 
In  Mr.  Joseph's    . 
In  Mrs.  Fanny's    . 

Balance  . 


£  *.  d. 
0   7  0 

0   0   t)^ 
0   0   0 
0  0  0 

0   6   5i 


They  stood  silent  some  few  minutes,  staring  at  each 
other,  when  Adams  whipt  out  on  his  toes,  and  asked 
the  hostess,  "  If  there  was  no  clergyman  in  that 
parish.?"  She  answered,  "There  was/'  —  "Is  he 
wealthy  .''"  replied  he  ;  to  which  she  liicewise  answered 
in  the  affirmative.  Adams  then  snapping  his  fingers 
returned  overjoyed  to  his  companions,  crying  out, 
"  Heureka,  Heureka ; "  which  not  being  understood, 
he  told  them  in  plain  English,  "  They  need  give 
themselves  no  trouble,  for  he  had  a  brother  in  the 
parish  who  would  defray  the  reckoning,  and  that  he 
would  just  step  to  his  house  and  fetch  the  money, 
and  return  to  them  instantly." 


END   OF   VOL.    I. 


[236] 


rOPYRIOHT   1'505    BY     rflE.  irNlVEriSlT Y    FHliMS 


JOSEPH    HEARD    A    VIOLENT    KNOCKING    AT 
THE    DOOR 


He  presently  jximped  out  of  bed  and  opening  the 
Tcindotv,  ieas  asked  if  there  were  no  travelers  in  the 
hon.se 


VOL.  II. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK    II  {Continued) 
CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 


PAGE 


An  interview  between  Parson  Adams  and  Parson 

Trulliber 1 

CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

An  adventure,  the  consequence  of  a  new  instance 

which  I'arson  Adams  gave  of  his  forgetfulness       11 

CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

A  very  curious  adventure,  in  which  Mr.  Adams 
gave  a  much  greater  instance  of  the  honest 
simplicity  of  his  heart,  than  of  his  experience 
in  the  ways  of  this  world 15 

CHAPTER   SEVENTEEN 

A  dialogue  between  Mr.  Abraham  Adams  and  liis 
host,  which,  by  the  disagreement  in  their 
opinions,  seemed  to  threaten  an  unlucky  catas- 
trophe, had  it  not  been  timely  prevented  by 
the  return  of  the  lovers 26 

[v] 


CONTENTS 

BOOK    III 
CHAPTER    ONE 

PAOE 

Matter  prefatory  in  praise  of  biography  ....       34 

CHAPTER   TWO 

A  night  scene,  wherein  several  wonderful  adven- 
tures befel  Adams  and  his  fellow-travellers      .       41 

CHAPTER   THREE 

In  which  the   gentleman   relates  the    history  of 

his  life 55 

CHAPTER   FOUR 

A  description  of  Mr.  Wilson's  way  of  living.  The 
tragical  adventure  of  the  dog,  and  other  grave 
matters 88 

CHAPTER    FIVE 

A  disputation  on  schools  held  on  the  road  between 
Mr.  Abraham  Adams  and  Joseph ;  and  a  dis- 
covery not  unwelcome  to  them  both  ....       QB 

CHAPTER   SIX 

Moral  reflections  by  Joseph  Andrews;  with  the 
hunting  adventure,  and  Parson  Adams's  mirac- 
ulous escape 101 

[vi] 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER   SEVEN 

PAGE 

A  scene  of  roasting,  very  nicely  adapted  to  the 

present  taste  and  times 115 

CHAPTER    EIGHT 

Which   some   readers  will   think   too  short  and 

others  too  long 127 

CHAPTER  NINE 

Gjntaining  as  surprising  and  bloody  adventures 
as  can  be  found  in  this  or  perhaps  any  other 
authentic  history 133 

CHAPTER  TEN 

A  discourse  between  the  poet  and  the  player  ;  of 
no  other  use  in  this  history  but  to  divert  the 
reader 139 

CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

Containing  the  exhortations  of  Parson  Adams  to 
his  friend  in  affliction ;  calculated  for  the  in- 
struction and  improvement  of  the  reader       .     145 

CHAPTER    TWELVE 

More  adventures,  which  we    hope  will  as  much 

please  as  surprise  the  reader 150 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

PAGE 

A  curious  dialogue  which  passed  between  Mr. 
Abraham  Adams  and  Mr.  Peter  Pounce,  better 
worth  reading  than  all  the  works  of  Colley 
Gibber  and  many  others l60 


BOOK   IV 
CHAPTER  ONE 


The  arrival  of  Lady  Booby  and  the  rest  at  Booby- 
Hall      164 

CHAPTER  TWO 

A  dialogue  between  Mr.  Abraham  Adams  and  the 

Lady  Booby 171 

CHAPTER  THREE 
What  passed  between  the  lady  and  Lawyer  Scout     1 75 

CHAPTER  FOUR 

A  short  chapter,  but  very  full  of  matter ;  particu- 
larly the  arrival  of  Mr.  Booby  and  his  lady       .     179 

CHAPTER    FIVE 

Containing  justice  business;  curious  precedents  of 
depositions,  and  other  matters  necessary  to  be 

[viii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

perused  by  all  justices  of  the  peace  and  their 
clerks 182 

CHAPTER   SIX 

Of  which  you  are  desired  to  read  no  more  than 

you  like 191 

CHAPTER   SEVEN 

Philosophical  reflections,  the  like  not  to  be  found 
in  any  light  French  romance.  Mr.  Booby's 
grave  advice  to  Joseph,  and  Fanny's  encounter 
vnth  a  beau 199 

CHAPTER  EIGHT 

A  discourse  which  happened  between  Mr.  Adams, 
Mrs.  Adams,  Joseph,  and  Fanny  ;  with  some 
behaviour  of  Mr.  Adams  which  will  be  called 
by  some  few  readers  very  low,  absurd,  and 
unnatural 210 

CHAPTER   NINE 

A  visit  which  the  polite  Lady  Booby  and  her  polite 

friend  paid  to  the  parson 219 

CHAPTER  TEN 

The  history  of  two  friends,  which  may  afford  an 
useful  lesson  to  all  those  persons  who  happen 
to  take  up  their  residence  in  married  families     224 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

PAGE 

In  which  the  history  is  continued 233 

CHAPTER  TWELVE 

Where  the  good-natured  reader  will  see  some- 
thing which  will  give  him  no  great  pleasure     238 

CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 

The  history,  returning  to  the  Lady  Booby,  gives 
some  account  of  the  terrible  conflict  in  her 
breast  between  love  and  pride ;  with  what 
happened  on  the  present  discovery  ....     242 

CHAPTER   FOURTEEN 

Containing  several  curious  night-adventures,  in 
which  Mr.  Adams  fell  into  many  hair-breadth 
'scapes,  partly  owing  to  his  goodness,  and 
partly  to  his  inadvertency 249 

CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

The  arrival  of  GafFar  and  Gammar  Andrews,  with 
another  person  not  much  expected ;  and  a 
perfect  solution  of  the  difliculties  raised  by 
the  pedlar 257 

CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

Being    the    last,   in   which   this   true   history  is 

brought  to  a  happy  conclusion 263 


THE  HISTORY  of  the  ADVENTURES 

o/^  JOSEPH   ANDREWS 

AND  HIS  FRIEND  MR.  ABRAHAM  ADAMS 

BOOK    II.  —  continued 
CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

AN     INTERVIEW     BETWEEN     PARSON    ADAMS    AND    PARSON 

TRULLIBER. 

PARSON  Adams  came  to  the  house  of  par- 
son Trulliber,  whom  he  found  stript  into 
his  waistcoat,  with  an  apron  on,  and  a  pail 
in  his  hand,  just  come  from  serving  his 
hogs ;  for  Mr.  TrulHber  was  a  parson  on  Sundays, 
but  all  the  other  six  might  more  properly  be  called 
a  farmer.  He  occupied  a  small  piece  of  land  of  his 
own,  besides  which  he  rented  a  considerable  deal 
more.  His  wife  milked  his  cows,  managed  his  dairy, 
and  followed  the  markets  with  butter  and  eggs. 
The  hogs  fell  chiefly  to  his  care,  which  he  carefully 
waited  on  at  home,  and  attended  to  fairs  ;  on  which 
occasion  he  was  liable  to  many  jokes,  his  own  size 
being,  with  much  ale,  rendered  little  inferior  to  that 
of  the  beasts  he  sold.     He  was  indeed  one  of  the 

vol..  II.  —  1  [  1   1 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

largest  men  you  should  see,  and  could  have  acted  the 
part  of  Sir  John  Falstaff  without  stuffing.  Add  to 
this  that  the  rotundity  of  his  belly  was  considerably 
increased  by  the  shortness  of  his  stature,  his  shadow 
ascending  very  near  as  far  in  height,  when  he  lay  on 
his  back,  as  when  he  stood  on  his  legs.  His  voice 
was  loud  and  hoarse,  and  his  accents  extremely 
broad.  To  complete  the  whole,  he  had  a  stateliness 
in  his  gait,  when  he  wallced,  not  unlike  that  of  a 
goose,  only  he  stalked  slower. 

Mr,  Trulliber,  being  informed  that  somebody 
wanted  to  speak  with  him,  innnediately  slipt  off  his 
apron  and  clothed  himself  in  an  old  night-gown, 
being  the  dress  in  which  he  always  saw  his  company 
at  home.  His  wife,  who  informed  him  of  Mr. 
Adams's  arrival,  had  made  a  small  mistake ;  for  she 
had  told  her  husband,  "  She  believed  there  was  a 
man  come  for  some  of  his  hogs."  This  supposition 
made  Mr.  Trulliber  hasten  with  the  utmost  expedi- 
tion to  attend  his  guest.  He  no  sooner  saw  Adams 
than,  not  in  the  least  doubting  the  cause  of  his  errand 
to  be  what  his  wife  had  imagined,  he  told  him,  "  He 
was  come  in  very  good  time ;  that  he  expected  a 
dealer  that  very  afternoon  ;  "  and  added,  "  they  were 
all  pure  and  fat,  and  upwards  of  twenty  score  a-piece." 
Adams  answered,  "  He  believed  he  did  not  know 
him."  "  Yes,  yes,"  cried  Trulliber,  "  I  have  seen 
you  often  at  fair ;  why,  we  have  dealt  before  now, 
mun,  I  warrant  you.  Yes,  yes,"  cries  he,  "  I  remem- 
ber thy  face  very  well,  but  won't  mention  a  word 
more  till  you  have  seen  them,  though  I  have  never 
sold  thee  a  flitch  of  such   bacon   as  is  now   in   the 

[2] 


AN  UNLUCKY  BLUNDER 

stye."  Upon  which  he  laid  violent  hands  on  Adams, 
and  dragged  him  into  the  hog-stye,  which  was 
indeed  but  two  steps  from  his  parlour  window.  They 
were  no  sooner  arrived  there  than  he  cry'd  out, 
"  Do  but  handle  them  !  step  in,  friend !  art  wel- 
come to  handle  them,  whether  dost  buy  or  no." 
At  which  words,  opening  the  gate,  he  pushed 
Adams  into  the  pig-stye,  insisting  on  it  that  he 
should  handle  them  before  he  would  talk  one  word 
with  him. 

Adams,  whose  natural  complacence  was  beyond 
any  artificial,  was  obliged  to  comply  before  he  was 
suffered  to  explain  himself;  and,  laying  hold  on  one 
of  their  tails,  the  unruly  beast  gave  such  a  sudden 
spring,  that  he  threw  poor  Adams  all  along  in  the 
mire.  Trulliber,  instead  of  assisting  him  to  get  up, 
burst  into  a  laughter,  and,  entering  the  stye,  said  to 
Adams,  with  some  contempt,  "  Why,  dost  not  know 
how  to  handle  a  hog  ? "  and  was  going  to  lay  hold 
of  one  himself,  but  Adams,  who  thought  he  had 
carried  his  complacence  far  enough,  was  no  sooner 
on  his  legs  than  he  escaped  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
animals,  and  cried  out,  "  Nihil  habeo  cum  porcis :  I 
am  a  clergyman,  sir,  and  am  not  come  to  buy  hogs." 
Trulliber  answered,  "  He  was  sorry  for  the  mistake, 
but  that  he  must  blame  his  wife,"  adding,  "  she  was 
a  fool,  and  always  committed  blunders."  He  then 
desired  him  to  walk  in  and  clean  himself,  that  he 
would  only  fasten  up  the  stye  and  follow  him.  Adams 
desired  leave  to  dry  his  greatcoat,  wig,  and  hat  by 
the  fire,  which  Trulliber  gi-anted.  Mrs.  Trulliber 
would  have  brought  him  a  basin  of  water  to  wash  his 

[3]. 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

face,  but  her  husband  bid  her  be  quiet  Hke  a  fool  as 
she  was,  or  she  would  connnit  more  blunders,  and 
then  directed  Adams  to  the  pump.  While  Adams 
was  thus  employed,  Trulliber,  conceiving  no  great 
respect  for  the  appearance  of  his  guest,  fastened  the 
parlour  door,  and  now  conducted  him  into  the 
kitchen,  telling  him  he  believed  a  cup  of  drink  would 
do  him  no  harm,  and  whispered  his  wife  to  draw  a 
little  of  the  worst  ale.  After  a  short  silence  Adams 
said,  "  I  fancy,  sir,  you  already  perceive  me  to  be 
a  clergyman."  —  "  Ay,  ay,"  cries  Trulliber,  grinning, 
"  I  perceive  you  have  some  cassock ;  I  will  not  ven- 
ture to  caale  it  a  whole  one."  Adams  answered,  "  It 
was  indeed  none  of  the  best,  but  he  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  tear  it  about  ten  years  ago  in  passing 
over  a  stile."  Mrs.  Trulliber,  returning  with  the 
drink,  told  her  husband,  "  She  fancied  the  gentleman 
Avas  a  traveller,  and  that  he  would  be  glad  to  eat  a 
bit."  Trulliber  bid  her  hold  her  impertinent 
tongue,  and  asked  her,  "  If  parsons  used  to  travel 
without  horses  ?  "  adding,  "  he  supposed  the  gentle- 
man had  none  by  his  having  no  boots  on."  —  "  Yes, 
sir,  yes,"  says  Adams  ;  "  I  have  a  horse,  but  I  have  left 
him  behind  me."  —  "I  am  glad  to  hear  you  have 
one,"  says  Trulliber  ;  "  for  I  assure  you  I  don't  love 
to  see  clergymen  on  foot ;  it  is  not  seemly  nor 
suiting  the  dignity  of  the  cloth."  Here  Trulliber 
made  a  long  oration  on  the  dignity  of  the  cloth  (or 
rather  gown)  not  much  worth  relating,  till  his  wife 
had  spread  the  table  and  set  a  mess  of  porridge  on 
it  for  his  breakfest.  He  then  said  to  Adams,  "  I 
don't  know,  friend,  how  you  came  to  caale  on  me  ; 

[4] 


THE    TWO    PARSONS 

however,  as  you  are  here,  if  you  think  proper  to  eat 
a  morsel,  you  njay."  Adams  accepted  the  invit^ition, 
and  the  two  parsons  sat  down  together ;  Mrs.  Trulh- 
ber  waiting  behind  her  husband's  chair,  as  was,  it 
seems,  her  custom.  Trulhber  eat  heartily,  but  scarce 
put  anything  in  his  mouth  without  finding  fault 
with  his  wife's  cookery.  All  which  the  poor  woman 
bore  patiently.  Indeed,  she  was  so  absolute  an 
admirer  of  her  husband's  greatness  and  importance, 
of  which  she  had  frequent  hints  from  his  own  mouth, 
that  she  almost  carried  her  adoration  to  an  opinion 
of  his  inffillibility.  To  say  the  truth,  the  parson 
had  exercised  her  more  ways  than  one  ;  and  the  pious 
woman  had  so  well  edified  by  her  husband's  sermons, 
that  she  had  resolved  to  receive  the  bad  things  of  this 
world  together  with  the  good.  She  had  indeed  been 
at  first  a  little  contentious  ;  but  he  had  long  since 
got  the  better ;  partly  by  her  love  for  this,  partly  by 
her  fear  of  that,  partly  by  her  religion,  partly  by 
the  respect  he  paid  himself,  and  partly  by  that 
which  he  received  from  the  parish.  She  had,  in 
short,  absolutely  submitted,  and  now  worshipped  her 
husband,  as  Sarah  did  Abraham,  calling  him  (not 
lord,  but)  master.  Whilst  they  were  at  table  her 
husband  gave  her  a  fresh  example  of  his  greatness  ; 
for,  as  she  had  just  delivered  a  cup  of  ale  to  Adams, 
he  snatched  it  out  of  his  hand,  and,  crying  out,  "  I 
caid'd  vurst,"  swallowed  down  the  ale.  Adams 
denied  it ;  it  was  referred  to  the  wife,  who,  though 
her  conscience  was  on  the  side  of  Adams,  durst  not 
give  it  against  her  husband ;  upon  which  he  said, 
"  No,  sir,  no  ;  I  should  not  have  been  so  rude  to  have 

[5] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

taken  it  from  you  if  you  had  caal'd  vurst,  but  I  'd 
have  you  know  I  ""ni  a  better  man  than  to  suffer  the 
best  he  in  the  kingdom  to  drink  before  me  in  my 
own  house  when  I  caale  vurst." 

As  soon  as  their  breakfast  was  ended,  Adams 
began  in  the  following  manner :  "  I  think,  sir,  it  is 
high  time  to  inform  you  of  the  business  of  my  em- 
bassy. I  am  a  traveller,  and  am  passing  this  way  in 
company  with  two  young  people,  a  lad  and  a  damsel, 
my  parishioners,  towards  my  own  cure ;  we  stopt 
at  a  house  of  hospitality  in  the  parish,  where  they 
directed  me  to  you  as  having  the  cure."  — "  Though 
I  am  but  a  curate,"  says  Trulliber,  "  I  believe  I 
am  as  warm  as  the  vicar  himself,  or  perhaps  the 
rector  of  the  next  parish  too ;  I  believe  I  could 
buy  them  both."  —  "Sir,"  cries  Adams,  "I  rejoice 
thereat.  Now,  sir,  my  business  is,  that  we  are  by 
various  accidents  stript  of  our  money,  and  are  not 
able  to  pay  our  reckoning,  being  seven  shillings.  I 
therefore  request  you  to  assist  me  with  tlie  loan  of 
those  seven  shillings,  and  also  seven  shillings  more, 
which,  peradventure,  I  shall  return  to  you  ;  but  if 
not,  I  am  convinced  you  will  joyfully  embrace  such 
an  opportunity  of  laying  up  a  treasure  in  a  better 
place  than  any  this  world  affords." 

Suppose  a  stranger,  who  entered  the  chambers  of 
a  lawyer,  being  imagined  a  client,  when  the  lawyer 
was  preparing  his  palm  for  the  fee,  should  pull  out 
a  writ  against  him.  Suppose  an  apothecary,  at  the 
door  of  a  chariot  containing  some  great  doctor  of 
eminent  skill,  should,  instead  of  directions  to  a 
patient,  present  him  with  a  potion  for  himself.     Sup- 

[6] 


PARSON    TRULLIBER    ASTONISHED 

pose  a  minister  should,  instead  of  a  good  round  sum, 

treat  my  lord ,  or  sir ,  or  escj.  

with  a  good  broomstick.  Suppose  a  civil  compan- 
ion, or  a  led  captain,  should,  instead  of  virtue,  and 
honour,  and  beauty,  and  parts,  and  admiration, 
thunder  vice,  and  infamy,  and  ugliness,  and  folly, 
and  contempt,  in  his  patron's  ears.  Suppose,  when 
a  tradesman  first  carries  in  his  bill,  the  man  of 
fashion  should  pay  it ;  or  suppose,  if  he  did  so,  the 
tradesman  should  abate  what  he  had  overcharged, 
on  the  supposition  of  waiting.  In  short  —  suppose 
what  you  will,  you  never  can  nor  will  suppose  any- 
thing equal  to  the  astonishment  which  seized  on 
Trulliber,  as  soon  as  Adams  had  ended  his  speech. 
A  while  he  rolled  his  eyes  in  silence  ;  sometimes  sur- 
veying Adams,  then  his  wife  ;  then  casting  them  on 
the  ground,  then  lifting  them  up  to  heaven.  At 
last  he  burst  forth  in  the  following  accents  :  "  Sir,  I 
believe  I  know  where  to  lay  up  my  little  treasure  as 
well  as  another.  I  thank  G — ,  if  I  am  not  so  warm 
as  some,  I  am  content;  that  is  a  blessing  greater 
than  riches  ;  and  he  to  whom  that  is  given  need  ask 
no  more.  To  be  content  with  a  little  is  greater  than 
to  possess  the  world ;  which  a  man  may  possess 
without  being  so.  Lay  up  my  treasure !  what 
matters  where  a  man's  treasure  is  whose  heart  is  in 
the  Scriptures  ?  there  is  the  treasure  of  a  Christian." 
At  these  words  the  water  ran  from  Adams's  eyes  ; 
and,  catching  Trulliber  by  the  hand  in  a  rapture, 
"  Brother,"  says  he,  "  heavens  bless  the  accident  by 
which  I  came  to  see  you !  I  would  have  walked 
many  a  mile  to  have  conniiuned  with  you  ;  and,  be- 

[7] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

lieve  me,  I  will  shortly  pay  you  a  second  visit ;  but 
my  friends,  I  fancy,  by  this  time,  wonder  at  my  stay ; 
so  let  me  have  the  money  in) mediately."  Trulliber 
then  put  on  a  stern  look,  and  cried  out,  "  Thou  dost 
not  intend  to  rob  me  ?"  At  which  the  wife,  burst- 
ing into  tears,  fell  on  her  knees  and  roared  out,  "  O 
dear  sir  !  for  lleavcn"'s  sake  don"'t  rob  my  master ;  we 
are  but  poor  people.""  "  Get  up,  for  a  fool  as  thou 
art,  and  go  about  thy  business,"  said  Trulliber; 
"  dost  think  the  man  will  venture  his  life  ?  he  is 
a  beggar,  and  no  robber."  "  Very  true,  indeed," 
answered  Adams.  "  I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  the 
tithing-man  was  here,"  cries  Trulliber ;  "  I  would 
have  thee  punished  as  a  vagabond  for  thy  impudence. 
Fourteen  shillings  indeed !  I  won't  give  thee  a 
farthing.  I  believe  thou  art  no  more  a  clergyman 
than  the  woman  there"  (pointing  to  his  wife)  ;  "  but 
if  thou  art,  dost  deserve  to  have  thy  gown  stript 
over  thy  shoulders  for  running  about  the  country  in 
such  a  manner."  "  I  forgive  your  suspicions,"  says 
Adams ;  "  but  suppose  I  am  not  a  clergyman,  I  am 
nevertheless  thy  brother ;  and  thou,  as  a  Christian, 
much  more  as  a  clergyman,  art  obliged  to  relieve  my 
distress."  "  Dost  preach  to  me  ?  "  replied  Trulliber  ; 
"  dost  pretend  to  instruct  me  in  my  duty  ?  "  *'  Ifacks, 
a  good  story,"  cries  Mrs.  Trulliber,  "  to  preach  to 
my  master."  "  Silence,  woman,"  cries  Trulliber.  "  I 
would  have  thee  know,  friend "  (addressing  himself 
to  Adams),  "  I  shall  not  learn  my  duty  from  such  as 
thee.  I  know  what  charity  is,  better  than  to  give  to 
vagabonds."  "  Besides,  if  we  were  inclined,  the  poor's 
rate  obliges  us  to  give  so  much  charity,"  cries  the 

[8] 


PARSON    TRULLIBER  S    CHARITY 

wife.     "  Pugh  !  thou  art  a  fool.     Poors  reate !    Hold 
thy  nonsense,"  answered  Trulliber ;  and  then,  turn- 
ing to  Adams,  he  told  him,  "  he  would  give  him 
nothing."     "I  am    sorry,"  answered   Adams,  "that 
you  do  know  what  charity  is,  since  you  practise  it 
no    better :  I   must  tell  you,  if  you   trust  to  your 
knowledge  for  your  justification,  you  will  find  your- 
self deceived,  though    you  should  add  faith   to  it, 
without   good    works,"     "  Fellow,"   cries    Trulliber, 
"  dost  thou  speak  against  ftiith  in  my  house  ?     Get 
out  of  my  doors  :  I  will  no  longer  remain  under  the 
same   roof  with  a   wretch  who  speaks  wantonly   of 
faith  and  the  Scriptures."     "  Name  not  the  Scrip- 
tures," says  Adams.     "  How !   not  name  the  Scrip- 
tures !     Do   you  disbelieve   the    Scriptures  ? "   cries 
Trulliber.     "  No ;  but   you    do,"   answered    Adams, 
"  if  I  may  reason  from  your  practice  ;  for  their  com- 
mands are  so  explicit,  and  their  rewards  and  punish- 
ments so  immense,  that  it  is  impossible  a  man  should 
stedfastly  believe  without  obeying.     Now,  there  is  no 
command  more  express,  no  duty  more  frequently  en- 
joined, than  charity.     Whoever,  therefoz-e,  is  void  of 
charity,  I  make  no  scruple  of  pronouncing  that  he 
is  no  Christian."     "  I  would  not  advise  thee,"  says 
Trulliber,  "  to  say  that  I  am  no  Christian  :   I  won't 
take  it  of  you ;  for  I  believe  I  am  as  good  a  man  as 
thyself"  (and  indeed,  though  he  was  now  rather  too 
corpulent  for  athletic  exercises,  he  had,  in  his  youth, 
been  one  of  the  best  boxers  and  cudgel-players  in  the 
county).     His  wife,  seeing  him  clench  his  fist,  inter- 
posed, and  begged  him  not  to  fight,  but  show  him- 
self a  true  Christian,  and  take  the  law  of  him.     As 

[9] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

nothing  could  provoke  Adams  to  strike,  but  an 
absolute  assault  on  himself  or  his  friend,  he  smiled 
at  the  angry  look  and  gestures  of  Trulliber ;  and, 
telling  him  he  was  sorry  to  see  such  men  in  orders, 
departed  without  further  ceremony. 


[10] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

AN  ADVENTURE,  THE    CONSEQUENCE  OF  A  NEW  INSTANCE 
WHICH  PAfiSON  ADAMS  GAVE  OF  HIS  FORGETFULNESS. 

WHEN  he  came  back  to  the  inn  he  found 
Joseph  and  Fanny  sitting  together. 
They  were  so  far  from  thinking  his 
absence  long,  as  he  had  feared  they 
would,  that  they  never  once  missed  or  thought  of 
him.  Indeed,  I  have  been  often  assured  by  both, 
that  they  spent  these  hours  in  a  most  delightful  con- 
versation ;  but,  as  I  never  could  prevail  on  either  to 
relate  it,  so  I  cannot  communicate  it  to  the  reader. 

Adams  acquainted  the  lovers  with  the  ill  success 
of  his  enterprize.  They  were  all  greatly  confounded, 
none  being  able  to  propose  any  method  of  departing, 
till  Joseph  at  last  advised  calling  in  the  hostess,  and 
desiring  her  to  trust  them  ;  which  Fanny  said  she 
despaired  of  her  doing,  as  she  was  one  of  the  sourest- 
faced  women  she  had  ever  beheld. 

But  she  was  agreeably  disappointed ;  for  the  hos- 
tess was  no  sooner  asked  the  question  than  she  readily 
agreed ;  and,  with  a  curtsy  and  smile,  wished  them 
a  good  journey  However,  lest  Fanny's  skill  in 
physiognomy  should  be  called  in  question,  we  will 
venture  to  assign  one  reason  which  might  probably 
incline   her   to    this    confidence    and   good-humour. 

[11] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

When  Adams  said  he  was  going  to  visit  his  brother, 
he  had  unwittingly  imposed  on  Joseph  and  Fanny, 
who  both  believed  he  had  meant  his  natural  brother, 
and  not  his  brother  in  divinity,  and  had  so  informed 
the  hostess,  on  her  enquiry  after  him.  Now  Mr. 
Trulliber  had,  by  his  professions  of  piety,  by  his 
gravity,  austerity,  reserve,  and  the  opinion  of  his 
great  wealth,  so  great  an  authority  in  his  parish, 
that  they  all  lived  in  the  utmost  fear  and  apprehen- 
sion of  him.  It  was  therefore  no  wonder  that  the 
hostess,  who  knew  it  was  in  his  option  whether  she 
should  ever  sell  another  mug  of  drink,  did  not  dare 
to  affront  his  supposed  brother  by  denying  him 
credit. 

They  were  now  just  on  their  departure  when 
Adams  recollected  he  had  left  his  greatcoat  and  hat 
at  Mr.  Trulliber''s.  As  he  was  not  desirous  of  re- 
newing his  visit,  the  hostess  herself,  having  no  servant 
at  home,  offered  to  fetch  it. 

This  was  an  unfortunate  expedient ;  for  the  hostess 
was  soon  undeceived  in  the  opinion  she  had  enter- 
tained of  Adams,  whom  Trulliber  abused  in  the 
grossest  terms,  especially  when  he  heard  he  had  had 
the  assurance  to  pretend  to  be  his  near  relation. 

At  her  return,  therefore,  she  entirely  changed  her 
note.  She  said,  "  Folks  might  be  ashamed  of  travel- 
ling about,  and  pretending  to  be  what  they  were  not. 
That  taxes  were  high,  and  for  her  part  she  was 
obliged  to  pay  for  what  she  had  ;  she  could  not  there- 
fore possibly,  nor  would  she,  trust  anybody  ;  no,  not 
her  o\vn  father.  That  money  was  never  scarcer,  and 
she  wanted  to  make  up  a  sum.     That  she  expected, 

[12  1 


PARSON    ADAMS'S    PERPLEXITY 

therefore,  they  should  pay  their  reckoning  before  they 
left  the  house."''' 

Adams  was  now  greatly  perplexed ;  but,  as  he 
knew  that  he  could  easily  have  borrowed  such  a  sum 
in  his  own  parish,  and  as  he  knew  he  would  have  lent 
it  himself  to  any  mortal  in  distress,  so  he  took  fi-esh 
courage,  and  sallied  out  all  round  the  parish,  but  to 
no  purpose;  he  returned  as  pennyless  as  he  went, 
groaning  and  lamenting  that  it  was  possible,  in  a 
country  professing  Christianity,  for  a  wretch  to  starve 
in  the  midst  of  his  fellow-creatures  who  abounded. 

Whilst  he  was  gone,  the  hostess,  who  stayed  as 
a  sort  of  guard  with  Joseph  and  Fanny,  entertained 
them  with  the  goodness  of  parson  Trulliber.  And, 
indeed,  he  had  not  only  a  very  good  character  as  to 
other  qualities  in  the  neighbourhood,  but  was  reputed 
a  man  of  great  charity  ;  for,  though  he  never  gave  a 
farthing,  he  had  always  that  word  in  his  mouth. 

Adams  was  no  sooner  returned  the  second  time 
than  the  storm  grew  exceedingly  high,  the  hostess 
declaring,  among  other  things,  that,  if  they  offered 
to  stir  without  paying  her,  she  would  soon  overtake 
them  with  a    Avarrant. 

Plato  and  Aristotle,  or  somebody  else,  hath  said, 
that  when  the  most  exquisite  cunning  fails,  chance  often 
hits  the  marl:,  and  that  by  means  the  least  expected. 
Virgil  expresses  this  very  boldly  :  — 

Turne,  quod  optanti  divum  promittere  nemo 
Auderet,  volvenda  dies,  en!  attulit  ultro. 

I  would  quote  more  great  men  if  I  could  ;  but  my 
memory  not  permitting  me,  I  will  proceed  to  exem- 
plify these  observations  bv  the  following  instance  :  — 

[13] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

There  chanced  (for  Adams  had  not  cunning  enough 
to  contrive  it)  to  be  at  that  time  in  the  alehouse  a 
fellow  who  had  been  formei'ly  a  drummer  in  an  Irish 
regiment,  and  now  travelled  the  country  as  a  pedlar. 
This  man,  having  attentively  listened  to  the  discourse 
of  the  hostess,  at  last  took  Adams  aside,  and  asked 
him  what  the  sum  was  for  which  they  were  detained. 
As  soon  as  he  was  informed,  he  sighed,  and  said, 
"  He  was  sorry  it  was  so  much  ;  for  that  he  had  no 
more  than  six  shillings  and  sixpence  in  his  pocket, 
which  he  would  lend  them  with  all  his  heart."" 
Adams  gave  a  caper,  and  cry'd  out,  "  It  would  do  ; 
for  that  he  had  sixpence  himself."'  And  thus  these 
poor  people,  who  could  not  engage  the  compassion 
of  riches  and  piety,  were  at  length  delivered  oat  of 
their  distress  by  the  charity  of  a  |X)or  pedlar, 

I  shall  refer  it  to  my  reader  to  make  what  observa- 
tions he  pleases  on  this  incident :  it  is  sufficient  for 
me  to  inform  him  that,  after  Adams  and  his  com- 
panions had  returned  him  a  thousand  thanks,  and  told 
him  where  he  might  call  to  be  repaid,  they  all  sallied 
out  of  the  house  without  any  compliments  fi'om  their 
hostess,  or  indeed  without  paying  her  any  ;  Adams 
declaring  he  would  take  particular  care  never  to  call 
there  again ;  and  she  on  her  side  assuring  them  she 
wanted  no  such  guests. 


[14] 


CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

A  VERY  CURIOUS  ADVENTURE,  IN  WHICH  MR.  ADAMS  GAVE 
A  MUCH  GREATER  INSTANCE  OF  THE  HONEST  SIMPLI- 
CITY OF  HIS  HEART,  THAN  OF  HIS  EXPERIENCE  IN 
THE  WAYS  OF  THIS  WORLD. 

OUll  travellers  had  walked  about  two  miles 
from  that  inn,  which  they  had  more 
reason  to  have  mistaken  for  a  castle  than 
Don  Quixote  ever  had  any  of  those  in 
which  he  sojourned,  seeing  they  had  met  with  such 
difficulty  in  escaping  out  of  its  walls,  when  they  came 
to  a  parish,  and  beheld  a  sign  of  invitation  hanging 
out.  A  gentleman  sat  smoaking  a  pipe  at  the  door, 
of  whom  Adams  inquired  the  road,  and  received  so 
courteous  and  obliging  an  answer,  accompanied  with 
so  smiling  a  countenance,  that  the  good  parson, 
whose  heart  was  naturally  disposed  to  love  and  affec- 
tion, began  to  ask  several  other  questions ;  parti- 
cularly the  name  of  the  parish,  and  who  was  the 
owner  of  a  large  house  whose  front  they  then  had  in 
prospect.  The  gentleman  answei-ed  as  obligingly  as 
before ;  and  as  to  the  house,  acquainted  him  it  was 
his  own.  He  then  proceeded  in  the  following  man- 
ner :  "  Sir,  I  presume  by  your  habit  you  are  a  clergy- 
man ;  and  as  you  are  travelling  on  foot  I  suppose  a 
glass  of  good  beer  will  not  be  disagreeable  to  you ; 

[15] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

and  I  can  recommend  my  landlord's  within  as  some 
of  the  best  in  all  this  country.  What  say  you,  will 
you  halt  a  little  and  let  us  take  a  pipe  together  ? 
there  is  no  better  tobacco  in  the  kingdom,"  This 
proposal  was  not  displeasing  to  Adams,  who  had 
allayed  his  thirst  that  day  with  no  better  liquor  than 
what  Mrs.  Trulliber's  cellar  had  produced  ;  and  which 
was  indeed  little  superior,  either  in  richness  or  flavour, 
to  that  which  distilled  from  those  grains  her  generous 
husband  bestowed  on  his  hogs.  Having,  therefore, 
abundantly  thanked  the  gentleman  for  his  kind  in- 
vitation, and  bid  Joseph  and  Fanny  follow  him,  he 
entered  the  alehouse,  where  a  large  loaf  and  cheese 
and  a  pitcher  of  beer,  which  truly  answered  the 
character  given  of  it,  being  set  before  them,  the  three 
travellers  fell  to  eating,  with  appetites  infinitely  more 
voracious  than  are  to  be  found  at  the  most  exquisite 
eating-houses  in  the  parish  of  St.  James's. 

The  gentleman  expressed  great  delight  in  the 
hearty  and  cheerful  behaviour  of  Adams ;  and  par- 
ticularly in  the  familiarity  with  which  he  conversed 
with  Joseph  and  Fanny,  whom  he  often  called  his 
children  ;  a  term  he  explained  to  mean  no  more  than 
his  parishioners  ;  saying,  "  He  looked  on  all  those 
whom  God  had  intrusted  to  his  cure  to  stand  to  him 
in  that  relation."  The  gentleman,  shaking  him  by 
the  hand,  highly  applauded  those  sentiments.  "  They 
are,  indeed,"  says  he,  "  the  true  principles  of  a 
Christian  divine ;  and  I  heartily  wish  they  were 
universal ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  I  am  sorry  to  say 
the  parson  of  our  parish,  instead  of  esteeming  his 
poor   parishioners  as  a  part    of  his    family,    seems 

[16] 


SPIRITUAL    PRIDE 

rather  to  consider  them  as  not  of  the  same  species 
with  himself.  He  seldom  speaks  to  any,  unless  some 
few  of  the  richest  of  us ;  nay,  indeed,  he  will  not 
move  his  hat  to  the  others.  I  often  laugh  when  I 
behold  him  on  Sundays  strutting  along  the  church- 
yard like  a  turkey-cock  through  rows  of  his  parish- 
ioners, who  bow  to  him  with  as  much  submission, 
and  are  as  unregarded,  as  a  set  of  servile  courtiers  by 
the  proudest  prince  in  Christendom.  But  if  such 
temporal  pride  is  ridiculous,  surely  the  spiritual  is 
odious  and  detestable ;  if  such  a  pufFed-up  empty 
human  bladder,  strutting  in  princely  robes,  justly 
moves  one's  derision,  surely  in  the  habit  of  a  priest 
it  must  raise  our  scorn." 

"  Doubtless,""  answered  Adams,  "  your  opinion  is 
right ;  but  I  hope  such  examples  are  rare.  The 
clergy  whom  I  have  the  honour  to  know  maintain  a 
different  behaviour  ;  and  you  will  allow  me,  sir,  that 
the  readiness  which  too  many  of  the  laity  show  to 
contemn  the  order  may  be  one  reason  of  their  avoid- 
ing too  much  humility.""  "  Very  true,  indeed,"  says 
the  gentleman  ;  "  I  find,  sir,  you  are  a  man  of  ex- 
cellent sense,  and  am  happy  in  this  opportunity  of 
knowing  you  ;  perhaps  our  accidental  meeting  may 
not  be  disadvantageous  to  you  neither.  At  present 
I  shall  only  say  to  you  that  the  incumbent  of  this 
living  is  old  and  infirm,  and  that  it  is  in  my  gift. 
Doctor,  give  me  your  hand ;  and  assure  yourself  of 
it  at  his  decease."  Adams  told  him,  "  He  was  never 
more  confounded  in  his  life  than  at  his  utter  inca- 
pacity to  make  any  return  to  such  noble  and  un- 
merited generosity."     "  A  mere  trifle,  sir,"  cries  the 

VOL.  II.— 2  [  17  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

gentleman,  "  scarce  worth  your  acceptance;  a  little 
more  than  three  hundred  a  year.  I  wish  it  was 
double  the  value  for  your  sake."  Adams  bowed, 
and  cried  from  the  emotions  of  his  gratitude ;  when 
the  other  asked  him,  "  If  he  was  married,  or  had  any 
children,  besides  those  in  the  spiritual  sense  he  had 
mentioned.""  "  Sir,"  replied  the  parson,  "  I  have  a 
wife  and  six  at  your  service."  "  That  is  vmlucky," 
says  the  gentleman  ;  "  for  I  would  otherwise  have 
taken  you  into  my  own  house  as  my  chaplain ;  how- 
ever, I  have  another  in  the  parish  (for  the  parsonage- 
house  is  not  good  enough),  which  I  will  furnish  for 
you.  Pray,  does  your  wife  understand  a  dairy  ? " 
"  I  can't  profess  she  does,"  says  Adams.  *'  I  am 
sorry  for  it,"  quoth  the  gentleman  ;  *'  I  would  have 
given  you  half-a-dozen  cows,  and  very  good  grounds 
to  have  maintained  them."  *'  Sir,"  said  Adams,  in 
an  extasy,  "•'  you  are  too  liberal ;  indeed  you  are." 
"  Not  at  all,"  cries  the  gentleman  :  "  I  esteem  riches 
only  as  they  give  me  an  opportunity  of  doing  good  ; 
and  I  never  saw  one  whom  I  had  a  greater  inclina- 
tion to  serve."  At  which  words  he  shook  him 
heartily  by  the  hand,  and  told  him  he  had  sufficient 
room  in  his  house  to  entertain  him  and  his  friends. 
Adams  begged  he  might  give  him  no  such  trouble ; 
that  they  could  be  very  well  accommodated  in  the 
house  where  they  were ;  forgetting  they  had  not  a 
sixpenny  piece  among  them.  The  gentleman  would 
not  be  denied  ;  and,  informing  himself  how  far  they 
were  travelling,  he  said  it  was  too  long  a  journey  to 
take  on  foot,  and  begged  that  they  would  favour 
him  by  suffering  him  to  lend  them  a  servant  and 

[18] 


OFFERS   OF   HOsriTALrrv 

horses  ;  adding,  withal,  that,  if  they  would  do  him 
the  pleasure  of  their  company  only  two  days,  he 
would  furnish  them  with  his  coach  and  six.  Adams, 
turning  to  Joseph,  said,  "  How  lucky  is  this  gentle- 
man's goodness  to  you,  who  I  am  afraid  would  be 
scarce  able  to  hold  out  on  your  lame  leg  ! "  and  then, 
addressing  the  person  who  made  him  these  liberal 
promises,  after  much  bowing,  he  cried  out,  "  Blessed 
be  the  hour  which  first  introduced  me  to  a  man  of 
vour  charity !  you  are  indeed  a  Christian  of  the  true 
primitive  kind,  and  an  honour  to  the  country 
wherein  you  live.  I  would  willingly  have  taken  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land  to  have  beheld  you  ; 
for  the  advantages  which  we  draw  from  your  good- 
ness give  me  little  pleasure,  in  comparison  of  what  I 
enjoy  for  your  own  sake  when  I  consider  the  trea- 
sures you  are  by  these  means  laying  up  for  yourself 
in  a  country  that  passeth  not  away.  We  will  there- 
fore, most  generous  sir,  accept  your  goodness,  as  well 
the  entertainment  you  have  so  kindly  offered  us  at 
vour  house  this  evening,  as  the  accommodation  of 
vour  horses  to-morrow  morning."  He  then  began 
to  search  for  his  hat,  as  did  Joseph  for  his  ;  and 
both  they  and  Fanny  were  in  order  of  departure, 
when  the  gentleman,  stopping  short,  and  seeming  to 
meditate  by  himself  for  the  space  of  about  a  minute, 
exclaimed  thus :  "  Sure  never  anything  was  so  un- 
lucky ;  I  had  forgot  that  my  housekeeper  was  gone 
abroad,  and  hath  locked  up  all  my  rooms  ;  indeed,  I 
would  break  them  open  for  you,  but  shall  not  be  able 
to  furnish  you  with  a  bed  ;  for  she  has  likewise  put 
a^^■ay  all  my  linen.     I  am  glad  it  entered  into  my 

[  19  1 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

head  before  I  had  given  you  the  trouble  of  walking 
there  ;  besides,  I  believe  you  will  find  better  accom- 
modations here  than  you  expected.  —  Landlord,  you 
can  provide  good  beds  for  these  people,  can't  you  ?  " 
"  Yes,  and  please  your  worship,"  cries  the  host, 
"  and  such  as  no  lord  or  justice  of  the  peace  in  the 
kingdom  need  be  ashamed  to  lie  in."  "  I  am  heartily 
sorry,"  says  the  gentleman,  "  for  this  disappointment. 
I  am  resolved  I  will  never  suffer  her  to  carry  away 
the  keys  again."  "Pray,  sir,  let  it  not  make  you 
uneasy,"  cries  Adams  ;  "  we  shall  do  very  well  here  ; 
and  the  loan  of  your  horses  is  a  favour  we  shall  be 
incapable  of  making  any  return  to."  "  Ay  ! "  said 
the  squire,  "  the  horses  shall  attend  you  here  at  what 
hour  in  the  morning  you  please ; "  and  now,  after 
many  civilities  too  tedious  to  enumerate,  many 
squeezes  by  the  hand,  with  most  affectionate  looks 
and  smiles  at  each  other,  and  after  appointing  the 
horses  at  seven  the  next  morning,  the  gentleman 
took  his  leave  of  them,  and  departed  to  his  own 
house.  Adams  and  his  companions  returned  to  the 
table,  where  the  parson  smoaked  another  pipe,  and 
then  they  all  retired  to  rest. 

Mr.  Adams  rose  very  early,  and  called  Joseph  out 
of  his  bed,  between  whom  a  very  fierce  dispute 
ensued,  whether  Fanny  should  ride  behind  Joseph, 
or  behind  the  gentleman's  servant ;  Joseph  insisting 
on  it  that  he  was  perfectly  recovered,  and  was  as 
capable  of  taking  care  of  Fanny  as  any  other  person 
could  be.  But  Adams  would  not  agree  to  it,  and 
declared  he  would  not  trust  her  behind  him  ;  for  that 
he  was  weaker  than  he  imagined  himself  to  be. 

[20] 


DISAPPOINTMENT 

This  dispute  continued  along  time,  and  had  begun' 
to  be  very  hot,  when  a  servant  arrived  from  their 
good  friend,  to  acquaint  them  that  he  was  unfortu- 
nately prevented  from  lending  them  any  horses ;  for 
that  his  groom  had,  unicnown  to  him,  put  his  whole 
stable  under  a  course  of  phvsic. 

This  advice  presently  struck  the  two  disputants 
dumb :  Adams  cried  out,  "  Was  ever  anything  so 
unlucky  as  this  poor  gentleman?  I  protest  I  am 
more  sorry  on  his  account  than  my  own.  You  see, 
Joseph,  how  this  good-natured  man  is  treated  by  his 
servants  ;  one  locks  up  his  linen,  another  physics  his 
horses,  and  I  suppose,  by  his  being  at  this  house  last 
night,  the  butler  had  locked  up  his  cellar.  Bless  us  ! 
how  good-nature  is  used  in  this  world !  I  protest  I 
am  more  concerned  on  his  account  than  my  own." 
"  So  am  not  I,"  cries  Joseph  ;  "  not  that  I  am  much 
troubled  about  \\alking  on  foot ;  all  my  concern  is, 
how  we  shall  get  out  of  the  house,  unless  God  sends 
another  pedlar  to  redeem  us.  But  certainly  this 
gentleman  has  such  an  affection  for  you,  that  he  would 
lend  you  a  larger  sum  than  we  owe  here,  which  is 
not  above  four  or  five  shillings."  "  \  ery  true, 
child,"  answered  Adams ;  "  I  will  write  a  letter  to 
him,  and  will  even  venture  to  solicit  him  for  three 
half-crowns  ;  there  will  be  no  harm  in  having  two 
or  three  shillings  in  our  pockets  ;  as  we  have  full 
forty  miles  to  travel,  we  may  possibly  have  occasion 
for  them." 

Fanny  being  now  risen,  Joseph  paid  her  a  visit, 
and  left  Adams  to  write  his  letter,  which  having 
finished,  he  despatched  a  bov  with  it  to  the  gentle- 

[21] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

man,  and  then  seated  himself  by  the  door,  hghted 
his  pipe,  and  betook  himself  to  meditation. 

The  boy  staying  longer  than  seemed  to  be  neces- 
sary, Jose})h,  who  with  Eanny  was  now  returned  to 
the  parson,  expressed  some  apprehensions  that  the 
gentleman"'s  steward  had  locked  up  his  purse  too. 
To  which  Adams  answered,  "  It  might  very  possibly 
be,  and  he  should  wonder  at  no  liberties  which  the 
devil  might  put  into  the  head  of  a  wicked  servant 
to  take  with  so  worthy  a  master;''"'  but  added,  "  that, 
as  the  sum  was  so  small,  so  noble  a  gentleman  would 
be  easily  able  to  procure  it  in  the  parish,  though  he 
had  it  not  in  his  own  pocket.  Indeed,"'  says  he,  "  if 
it  was  four  or  five  guineas,  or  any  such  large  quantity 
of  money,  it  might  be  a  different  matter." 

They  were  now  sat  down  to  breakfast  over  some 
toast  and  ale,  when  the  boy  returned  and  informed 
them  that  the  gentleman  was  not  at  home.  "  Very 
well !  "  cries  Adams ;  "  but  why,  child,  did  you  not 
stay  till  his  return  ?  Go  back  again,  my  good  boy, 
and  wait  for  his  coming  home ;  he  cannot  be  gone 
far,  as  his  horses  are  all  sick  ;  and  besides,  he  had  no 
intention  to  go  abroad,  for  he  invited  us  to  spend 
this  day  and  to-morrow  at  his  house.  Therefore  go 
back,  child,  and  tarry  till  his  return  home."  The 
messenger  departed,  and  was  back  again  with  great 
expedition,  bringing  an  account  that  the  gentleman 
was  gone  a  long  journey,  and  would  not  be  at  home 
again  this  month.  At  these  words  Adams  seemed 
greatly  confounded,  saying,  "  This  must  be  a  sudden 
accident,  as  the  sickness  or  death  of  a  relation  or 
some  such  unforeseen  misfortune ; "  and  then,  turning 

[  22  ] 


INSINCERITY 

to  Joseph,  cried,  "I  wish  you  had  reminded  me  to  have 
borrowed  this  money  last  night."  Joseph,  smiHng, 
answered,  "  He  was  very  much  deceived  if  the  gen- 
tleman would  not  have  found  some  excuse  to  avoid 
lending  it.  —  I  ow  n,"  says  he,  "  I  was  never  much 
pleased  with  his  professing  so  much  kindness  for 
you  at  first  siglit ;  for  I  have  heard  the  gentlemen  of 
our  cloth  in  London  tell  many  such  stories  of  their 
masters.  But  when  the  bov  brought  the  message 
back  of  his  not  being  at  home,  I  presently  knew 
what  would  follow  ;  for,  whenever  a  man  of  fashion 
doth  not  care  to  fulfil  his  promises,  the  custom  is  to 
order  his  servants  that  he  will  never  be  at  home 
to  the  person  so  promised.  In  London  they  call 
it  denvinc  him.  I  have  mvself  denied  Sir  Thomas 
Booby  above  a  hundred  times,  and  when  the  man 
hath  danced  attendance  for  about  a  month  or  some- 
times longer,  he  is  acquainted  in  the  end  that  the 
gentleman  is  gone  out  of  town  and  could  do  nothing 
in  the  business."  —  "  Good  Lord  ! "  says  Adams, 
"  what  wickedness  is  there  in  the  Christian  world ! 
I  profess  almost  equal  to  what  I  have  read  of  the 
heathens.  But  surely,  Joseph,  your  suspicions  of 
this  gentleman  must  be  unjust,  for  what  a  silly  fellow 
must  he  be  who  would  do  the  devil's  work  for  noth- 
ing !  and  canst  thou  tell  me  any  interest  he  could 
possibly  propose  to  himself  by  deceiving  us  in  his 
professions  ? "  —  "  It  is  not  for  me,"  answered  Joseph, 
"  to  give  reasons  for  what  men  do,  to  a  gentleman  of 
your  learning."  —  "You  say  right,"  quoth  Adams; 
"  knowledge  of  men  is  only  to  be  learned  from  books  ; 
Plato  and  Seneca  for  that ;  and  those  are  authors, 

[23  1 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

I  am  afraid,  child,  you  never  read."  —  "  Not  I,  sir, 
truly,"  answered  Joseph ;  "  all  I  know  is,  it  is  a 
maxim  among  the  gentlemen  of  our  cloth,  that  those 
masters  who  promise  the  most  perform  the  least ; 
and  I  have  often  heard  them  say  they  have  found 
the  largest  vails  in  those  families  where  they  were 
not  promised  any.  But,  sir,  instead  of  considering 
any  farther  these  matters,  it  would  be  our  wisest 
way  to  contrive  some  method  of  getting  out  of  this 
house ;  for  the  generous  gentleman,  instead  of  doing 
us  any  service,  hath  left  us  the  whole  reckoning  to 
pay."  Adams  was  going  to  answer,  when  their  host 
came  in,  and,  with  a  kind  of  jeering  smile,  said, 
"  Well,  masters  !  the  squire  hath  not  sent  his  horses 
for  you  yet.  Laud  help  me  !  how  easily  some  folks 
make  promises  !  "  —  "  How  !  "  says  Adams  ;  "  have 
you  ever  known  him  do  anything  of  this  kind  before  ?" 
—  "  Aye  !  marry  have  I,"  answered  the  host :  "  it  is  no 
business  of  mine,  you  know,  sir,  to  say  anything  to  a 
gentleman  to  his  face ;  but  now  he  is  not  here,  I  will 
assure  you,  he  hath  not  his  fellow  within  the  three 
next  market-towns.  I  own  I  could  not  help  laughing 
when  I  heard  him  offer  you  the  living,  for  thereby 
hangs  a  good  jest.  I  thought  he  would  have  offered 
you  my  house  next,  for  one  is  no  more  his  to  dispose 
of  than  the  other."  At  these  words  Adams,  blessing 
himself^- -declared,  "  He  had  never  read  of  such  a 
monster.  But  what  vexes  me  most,"  says  he,  "is, 
that  he  hath  decoyed  us  into  running  up  a  long  debt 
with  you,  which  we  are  not  able  to  pay,  for  we  have 
no  money  about  us,  and,  what  is  worse,  live  at  such 
a  distance,  that  if  vou  should  trust  us,  I  am  afraid 

[24] 


GENUINE    HOSPITALITY 

you  would  lose  your  money  for  want  of  our  finding 
any  conveniencv  of  sending  it." — "Trust  vou, 
master  !  "  says  the  host,  "  that  I  will  with  all  my 
heart.  I  honour  the  clergy  too  much  to  deny  trust- 
ing one  of  them  for  such  a  trifle  ;  besides,  I  like  your 
fear  of  never  paying  me.  I  have  lost  many  a  debt 
in  my  lifetime,  but  was  promised  to  be  paid  them  all 
in  a  very  short  time.  I  will  score  this  reckoning  for 
the  novelty  of  it.  It  is  the  first,  I  do  assure  you, 
of  its  kind.  But  what  say  vou,  master,  .shall  we 
have  f  other  pot  before  we  part.''  It  will  waste  but 
a  little  chalk  more,  and  if  you  never  pay  me  a  shilling 
the  loss  will  not  ruin  me."  Adams  liked  the  invita- 
tion very  well,  especially  as  it  was  delivered  with  so 
hearty  an  accent.  He  shook  his  host  by  the  hand, 
and  thanking  him,  said,  "  He  would  tarry  another 
pot  rather  for  the  pleasure  of  such  worthy  company 
than  for  the  liquor;"  adding,  "he  was  glad  to  find 
some  Christians  left  in  the  kingdom,  for  that  he 
almost  began  to  suspect  that  he  was  sojourning  in  a 
country  inhabited  only  by  Jews  and  Turks." 

The  kind  host  produced  the  liquor,  and  Joseph 
with  Fanny  retired  into  the  garden,  where,  while  they 
solaced  themselves  with  amorous  discourse,  Adams 
sat  down  with  his  host ;  and,  both  filling  their 
glasses,  and  lighting  their  pipes,  they  began  that 
dialogue  which  the  reader  will  find  in  :e  next 
chapter. 


[25] 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 


A  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  MR.  ABRAHAM  ADAMS  AND  HIS 
HOST,  WHICH,  BY  THE  DISAGREEMENT  IN  THEIR 
OPINIONS,  SEEMED  TO  THREATEN  AN  UNLUCKY 
CATASTROPHE,  HAD  IT  NOT  BEEN  TIMELY  PRE- 
VENTED   BY    THE    RETURN    OF    THE    LOVERS. 


IR,"  said  the  host,  "  I  assure  you  you  are 
not  the  first  to  whom  our  scjuire  hath 
promised  more  than  he  hath  performed. 
He  is  so  famous  for  this  practice,  that  his 
word  will  not  be  taken  for  much  by  those  who  know 
him.  I  remember  a  young  fellow  whom  he  promised 
his  parents  to  make  an  exciseman.  The  poor  people, 
who  could  ill  afford  it,  bred  their  son  to  writing  and 
accounts,  and  other  learning  to  qualify  him  for  the 
place ;  and  the  boy  held  up  liis  head  above  his  con- 
dition with  these  hopes ;  nor  would  he  go  to  plough, 
nor  to  any  other  kind  of  work,  and  went  constantly 
drest  as  fine  as  could  bo,  with  two  clean  Holland 
shirts  a  week,  and  this  for  several  years ;  till  at  last 
he  followed  the  squire  up  to  London,  thinking  there 
to  mind  him  of  his  promises  ;  but  he  could  never  get 
sight  of  him.  So  that,  being  out  of  money  and  busi- 
ness, he  fell  into  evil  company  and  wicked  courses  ; 
and  in  the  end  came  to  a  sentence  of  transportation, 
the  news  of  which  broke  the  mother's  heart.  —  I  will 

[26  1 


THE    HOST^S    STORY 

tell    you  another  true  story  of  him.     There  was  a 

neighbour  of  mine,  a  farmer,  who  had  tAvo  sons  whom 

he  bred  up  to  the  business.     Pretty  lads  they  were. 

Nothing  would  serve  the  squire  but  that  the  youngest 

must  be  made  a  parson.     Upon  which  he  persuaded 

the  father  to  send  him  to  school,  promising  that  he 

would  afterwards  maintain  him  at  the  university,  and, 

when  he  was  of  a  proper  age,  give  him  a  living.     But 

after  the  lad  had  been  seven  years  at  school,  and  his 

fether  brought  him  to  the  squire,  with  a  letter  from 

his    master  that  he  was  fit    for   the  university,  the 

squire,  instead  of  minding  his  promise,  or  sending 

him  thither  at  his  expense,  only  told  his  father  that 

the  young  man  was  a  fine  scholar,  and  it  was  pity  he 

could  not  afford  to  keep  him  at  Oxford  for  four  or 

five  years  more,  by  which  time,  if  he  could  get  him 

a  curacy,  he  might  have  him  ordained.     The  farmer 

said,   '  He  was  not  a  man  sufficient  to  do  any  such 

thing.''  —  '  Why,  then,"  answered   the  squire,  '  I  am 

very  sorry  you  have  given  him  so  much  learning  ;  for, 

if  he  cannot  get  his  living  by  that,  it  will  rather  spoil 

him  for  anything  else  ;  and  your  other  son,  who  can 

hardly  write  his  name,  will  do  more  at  ploughing  and 

sowing,  and  is  in  a  better  condition,  than  he."     And 

indeed  so  it  proved  ;  for  the  poor  lad,  not  finding 

friends  to  maintain  him  in  his  learning,  as  he  had 

expected,  and  being  unwilling  to  work,  fell  to  di'ink- 

ina;,  thoug-h  he  was  a  very  sober  lad  before  ;  and  in  a 

short  time,  partly  with  grief,  and  partly  with  good 

liquor,  fell  into  a  consumption,  and  died.  —  Nay,  I 

can  tell  you  more  still :  there  was  another,  a  young 

woman,  and  the  handsomest  in  all  this  neighbour- 

[27] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

hood,  whom  he  enticed  up  to  London,  promising  to 
make  her  a  gentlewoman  to  one  of  your  women  of 
quahty  ;  but,  instead  of  keeping  his  word,  we  have 
since  heard,  after  having  a  child  by  her  himself,  she 
became  a  common  whore  ;  then  kept  a  coffee-house 
in  Covent  Garden  ;  and  a  little  after  died  of  the 
French  distemper  in  a  gaol.  —  I  could  tell  you  many 
more  stories  ;  but  how  do  you  imagine  he  served  me 
myself?  You  must  know,  sir,  I  was  bred  a  seafarine; 
man,  and  have  been  many  voyages  ;  till  at  last  I  came 
to  be  master  of  a  ship  myself,  and  was  in  a  fair  way 
of  making  a  fortune,  when  I  was  attacked  by  one  of 
those  cursed  guarda-costas  who  took  our  ships  before 
the  beginning  of  the  war  ;  and  after  a  fight,  wherein 
I  lost  the  greater  part  of  my  crew,  my  rigging  being 
all  demolished,  and  two  shots  received  between  wind 
and  water,  I  was  forced  to  strike.  The  villains 
carried  off  my  ship,  a  brigantine  of  150  tons  —  a 
pretty  creature  she  was  —  and  put  me,  a  man,  and  a 
boy,  into  a  little  bad  pink,  in  which,  with  much  ado, 
we  at  last  made  Falmouth  ;  though  I  believe  the 
Spaniards  did  not  imagine  she  could  possibly  live  a 
day  at  sea.  Upon  my  return  hither,  where  my  wife, 
who  was  of  this  country,  then  lived,  the  squire  told 
me  he  was  so  pleased  with  the  defence  I  had  made 
against  the  enemy,  that  he  did  not  fear  getting  me 
promoted  to  a  lieutenancy  of  a  man-of-war,  if  I  would 
accept  of  it ;  which  I  thankfully  assured  him  I  would. 
Well,  sir,  two  or  three  years  passed,  during  which  I 
had  many  repeated  promises,  not  only  from  the  squire, 
but  (as  he  told  me)  from  the  lords  of  the  admiralty. 
He  never  returned  from  London  but  I  was  assured  I 

[28] 


THE    FAITHLESS    SQUIRE 

might  be  satisfied  now,  for  I  was  certain  of  the  first 
vacancy  ;  and,  what  surprizes  me  still,  when  I  reflect 
on  it,  these  assurances  were  given  me  with  no  less  con- 
fidence, after  so  many  disappointments,  than  at  first. 
At  last,  sir,  growing  weary,  and  somewhat  suspicious, 
after  so  much  delay,  I  wrote  to  a  friend  in  London, 
who  I  knew  had  some  acquaintance  at  the  best  house 
in  the  admiralty,  and  desired  him  to  back  the  squire''s 
interest ;  for  indeed  I  feared  he  had  solicited  the 
affair  with  more  coldness  than  he  pretended.  And 
what  answer  do  you  think  my  friend  sent  me  ?  Truly, 
sir,  he  acquainted  me  that  the  squire  had  never 
mentioned  my  name  at  the  admiralty  in  his  life ;  and, 
unless  I  had  much  faithfuller  interest,  advised  me  to 
give  over  my  pretensions  ;  which  I  immediately  did, 
and,  with  the  concurrence  of  mv  wife,  resolved  to  set 
up  an  alehouse,  where  you  are  heartily  welcome  ;  and 
so  my  service  to  you ;  and  may  the  squire,  and  all 
such  sneaking  rascals,  go  to  the  devil  together.*'  —  "  O 
fie!  "says  Adams,  "O  fie!  He  is  indeed  a  wicked 
man  ;  but  G —  will,  I  hope,  turn  his  heart  to  repent- 
ance. Nay,  if  he  could  but  once  see  the  meanness 
of  this  detestable  vice  ;  would  he  but  once  reflect  that 
he  is  one  of  the  most  scandalous  as  well  as  pernicious 
lyars ;  sure  he  must  despise  himself  to  so  intolerable 
a  degree,  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  con- 
tinue a  moment  in  such  a  course.  And  to  confess  the 
truth,  notwithstanding  the  baseness  of  this  character, 
which  he  hath  too  well  deserved,  he  hath  in  his 
countenance  sufficient  symptoms  of  that  hona  hidoles^ 
that  sweetness  of  disposition,  which  furnishes  out  a 
good  Christian."  — "  Ah,  master  !  master  !  "  says  the 

[29] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

host,  "  if  you  had  travelled  as  far  as  I  have,  and  con- 
versed with  the  many  nations  where  I  have  traded, 
you  would  not  give  any  credit  to  a  man's  countenance. 
Symptoms  in  his  countenance,  quotha  !  I  would  look 
there,  perhaps,  to  see  whether  a  man  had  the  small- 
pox, but  for  nothing  else."  He  spoke  this  with  so 
little  regard  to  the  parson''s  observation,  that  it  a 
good  deal  nettled  him  ;  and,  taking  the  pipe  hastily 
from  his  mouth,  he  thus  answered  :  "  ^Master  of  mine, 
perhaps  I  have  travelled  a  great  deal  farther  than  you 
without  the  assistance  of  a  ship.  Do  you  imagine 
sailing  by  different  cities  or  countries  is  travelling  ? 
No. 

"  Caelum  non  animum  mutant  qui  trans  mare  currunt. 

I  can  go  farther  in  an  afternoon  than  you  in  a  twelve- 
month. What,  I  suppose  you  have  seen  the  Pillars 
of  Hercules,  and  perhaps  the  walls  of  Carthage. 
Nay,  you  may  have  heard  Scylla,  and  seen  Charybdis  ; 
you  may  have  entered  the  closet  where  Archimedes 
was  found  at  the  taking  of  Syracuse.  I  suppose  you 
have  sailed  among  the  Cyclades,  and  passed  the 
famous  straits  which  take  their  name  from  the  un- 
fortunate Helle,  whose  fate  is  sweetly  described  by 
Apollonius  Rhodius ;  you  have  passed  the  very  spot, 
I  conceive,  where  Daedalus  fell  into  that  sea,  his 
waxen  wings  being  melted  by  the  sun ;  you  have 
traversed  the  Euxine  sea,  I  make  no  doubt  ;  nay, 
you  may  have  been  on  the  banks  of  the  Caspian,  and 
called  at  Colchis,  to  see  if  there  is  ever  another 
golden  fleece.""  "  Not  I,  truly,  master,""  answered  the 
host:  "I  never  touched  at  any  of  these  places.""  — 

[30]    ' 


CHARACTER    OF    SOCRATES 

"  But  I  have  been  at  all  these,"  replied  Adams. 
"Then,  I  suppose,"  cries  the  host,  "'you  have  been 
at  the  East  Indies  ;  for  there  are  no  such,  I  will  be 
sworn,  either  in  the  West  or  the  Levant." — "Pray 
where  ''s  the  Levant  "^  "  quoth  Adams  ;  "  that  should 
be  in  the  East  Indies  by  right."  "  Oho  !  you  are  a 
pretty  traveller,"  cries  the  host,  "  and  not  know  the 
Levant  I  My  service  to  you,  master  ;  you  must  not 
talk  of  these  things  with  me  !  you  must  not  tip  us 
the  traveller ;  it  won't  go  here."  "  Since  thou  art 
so  dull  to  misunderstand  me  still,"  quoth  Adams, 
"  I  will  inform  thee ;  the  travellino;  I  mean  is  in 
books,  the  only  way  of  travelling  by  which  any  know- 
ledge is  to  be  acquired.  From  them  I  learn  what  I 
asserted  just  now,  that  nature  generally  imprints 
such  a  portraiture  of  the  mind  in  the  countenance, 
that  a  skilful  physiognomist  will  rarely  be  deceived. 
I  presume  you  have  never  read  the  story  of  Socrates 
to  this  purpose,  and  therefore  I  will  tell  it  you.  A 
certain  physiognomist  asserted  of  Socrates,  that  he 
plainly  discovered  by  his  features  that  he  was  a  rogue 
in  his  nature.  A  character  so  contrary  to  the  tenour 
of  all  this  great  man's  actions,  and  the  generally 
received  opinion  concerning  him,  incensed  the  boys 
of  Athens  so  that  they  threw  stones  at  the  physi- 
ognomist, and  would  have  demolished  him  for  his 
ignorance,  had  not  Socrates  himself  prevented  them 
by  confessing  the  ti-uth  of  his  observations,  and 
acknowledging  that,  though  he  corrected  his  dis- 
position by  philosophy,  he  was  indeed  naturally  as 
inclined  to  vice  as  had  been  predicated  of  him.  Now, 
pray   resolve    me  —  How  should   a  man    know   this 

[31] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

story  if  he  had  not  read  it  ? ""  "  Well,  master,"  said 
the  host,  "  and  what  signifies  it  whether  a  man  knows 
it  or  no  ?  He  who  goes  abroad,  as  I  have  done,  will- 
always  have  opportunities  enough  of  knowing  the 
world  without  troubling  his  head  with  Socrates,  or 
any  such  fellows."'  "  Friend,"  cries  Adams,  "  if  a 
man  should  sail  round  the  world,  and  anchor  in  every 
harbour  of  it,  without  learning,  he  would  return 
home  as  ignorant  as  he  went  out."  "  Lord  help  you  !  " 
answered  the  host ;  "  there  was  my  boatswain,  poor 
fellow  !  he  could  scarce  either  write  or  read,  and  vet 
he  would  navigate  a  ship  with  any  master  of  a  man- 
of-war  ;  and  a  very  pretty  knowledge  of  trade  he  had 
too."  "  Trade,"  answered  Adams,  "  as  Aristotle 
proves  in  his  first  chapter  of  Politics,  is  below  a 
philospher,  and  unnatural  as  it  is  managed  now." 
The  host  looked  stedfastly  at  Adams,  and  after  a 
minute's  silence  asked  him,  "  If  he  was  one  of  the 
writers  of  the  Gazetteers .?  for  I  have  heard,"  says 
he,  "  they  are  writ  by  parsons."  "  Gazetteers  ! " 
answered  Adams,  "  what  is  that  ?  "  "  It  is  a  dirty 
newspaper,"  replied  the  host,  "  which  hath  been 
given  away  all  over  the  nation  for  these  many  years, 
to  abuse  trade  and  honest  men,  which  I  would  not 
suffer  to  lye  on  my  table,  though  it  hath  been  offered 
me  for  nothing."  "  Not  I  truly,"  said  Adams  ;  "  I 
never  write  anything  but  sermons ;  and  I  assure  you 
I  am  no  enemy  to  trade,  whilst  it  is  consistent  with 
honesty  ;  nay,  I  have  always  looked  on  the  tradesman 
as  a  very  valuable  member  of  society,  and,  perhaps, 
inferior  to  none  but  the  man  of  learning."  "  No,  I 
believe  he  is  not,  nor  to  him  neither,"  answered  the 

[32  ] 


THE    JOURNEY    RENEWED 

host.     "  Of  what  use  would  learning  be  in  a  country 
without  trade  ?     What  would    all    you    parsons   do 
to  clothe  your  backs  and  feed  your  bellies?      ^Vho 
fetches  you  your  silks,   and  your  linens,  and    your 
wines,  and  all  the  other  necessaries  of  life  ?     I  speak 
chiefly  with  regard    to  the  sailors."     "  You  should 
say  the  extravagancies  of  life,"  replied  the  parson ; 
"  but  admit  they  were  the  necessaries,  there  is  some- 
thing more  necessary  than  life  itself,  which  is  pro- 
vided by  learning  ;  I  mean  the  learning  of  the  clergy. 
Who    clothes    you   with    piety,  meekness,    humility, 
charity,  patience,  and  all  the  other  Christian  virtues  ? 
Who  feeds  your  souls  with  the  milk  of  brotherly 
love,  and  diets  them   with   all  the  dainty   food  of 
holiness,  which  at  once  cleanses  them  of  all  impure 
carnal  affections,  and  fattens  them  with  the  truly  rich 
spirit  of  grace  ?     Who   doth    this  ?  "     "  Aye,  who, 
indeed  ? "  cries  the  host ;  "  for  I  do  not  remember 
ever  to  have  seen  any  such  clothing  or  such  feeding. 
And  so,  in   the   mean   time,   master,   my  service  to 
you."     Adams  was  going  to  answer  with  some  sever- 
ity, when  Joseph  and  Fanny  returned  and  pressed  his 
departure  so  eagerly  that  he  would  not  refuse  them  ; 
and  so,  grasping  his  crabstick,  he  took  leave  of  his 
host  ( neither  of  them   being  so  well   pleased  with 
each  other  as  they  had   been   at  their  first  sitting 
down  together),  and  with  Joseph  and   Fanny,  who 
both  expressed  much  impatience,  departed,  and  now 
all  together  renewed  their  journey. 


VOL.   II. 


[33] 


BOOK   III 

CHAPTER     ONE 

MATTER    PREFATORY    IN    PRAISE    OF    BIOGRAPHY. 

N NOTWITHSTANDING  the  preference 
which  may  be  vulgarly  given  to  the 
authority  of  those  romance  writers  who 
entitle  their  books  "the  History  of 
England,  the  History  of  France,  of  Spain,  ^c.,""  it  is 
most  certain  that  truth  is  to  be  found  only  in  the 
works  of  those  who  celebrate  the  lives  of  great  men, 
and  are  commonly  called  biographers,  as  the  others 
should  indeed  be  termed  topographers,  or  choro- 
graphers  ;  words  which  might  well  mark  the  distinc- 
tion between  them  ;  it  being  the  business  of  the 
latter  chiefly  to  descrilx?  countries  and  cities,  which, 
with  the  assistance  of  maps,  they  do  pretty  justly, 
and  may  be  depended  upon  ;  but  as  to  the  actions 
and  characters  of  men,  their  writings  are  not  quite  so 
authentic,  of  which  there  needs  no  other  proof  than 
thoie  eternal  contradictions  occurring  between  two 
topographers  who  undertake  the  history  of  the  same 
country  :  for  instance,  between  my  Lord  Clarendon 
and  Mr.  Whitelocke,  between  Mr.  Echard  and  Rapin, 
and  many  others  ;  where,  facts  being  set  forth  in  a 
different  light,  every  reader  believes  as  he  pleases ; 

[34]    ^ 


PRxVISE    OF    BIOGRAPHY 

and,  indeed,  the  more  judicious  and  suspicious  very 
justly  esteem  the  whole  as  no  other  than  a  roinance, 
in  which  the  writer  hath  indulged  a  happy  and  fer- 
tile invention.  But  though  these  widely  differ  in  the 
narrative  of  facts  ;  some  ascribing  victory  to  the  one, 
and  others  to  the  other  party  ;  some  representing  the 
same  man  as  a  rogue,  while  others  give  him  a  great 
and  honest  character ;  yet  all  agree  in  the  scene  where 
the  fact  is  supposed  to  have  happened,  and  where  the 
person,  who  is  both  a  rogue  and  an  honest  man,  lived. 
Now  with  us  biographers  the  case  is  different ;  the 
facts  we  deliver  may  be  relied  on,  though  we  often 
mistake  the  age  and  country  wherein  they  happened  : 
for,  though  it  may  be  worth  the  examination  of 
critics,  whether  the  shepherd  Chrysostom,  who,  as 
Cervantes  informs  us,  died  for  love  of  the  fair  Mar- 
cella,  who  hated  him,  was  ever  in  Spain,  will  any  one 
doubt  but  that  such  a  silly  fellow  hath  really  existed  .'' 
Is  there  in  the  world  such  a  sceptic  as  to  disbelieve 
the  madness  of  Cardenio,  the  perfidy  of  Ferdinand, 
the  impertinent  curiosity  of  Anselmo,  the  weakness 
of  Camilla,  the  irresolute  friendship  of  Lothario  ? 
though  perhaps,  as  to  the  time  and  place  where  those 
several  persons  lived,  that  good  historian  may  be 
deplorably  deficient.  But  the  most  known  instance  of 
this  kind  is  in  the  true  history  of  Gil  Bias,  where  the 
inimitable  biographer  hath  made  a  notorious  blunder 
in  the  country  of  Dr.  Sangrado,  who  used  his  patients 
as  a  vintner  doth  his  wine-vessels,  by  letting  out 
their  blood,  and  filling  them  up  with  water.  Dotli 
not  every  one,  who  is  the  least  versed  in  physical 
historv,  know  that  Spain  was  not  the  country  in 

[  35  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

which  this  doctor  hved  ?  The  same  writer  hath 
hkewise  erred  in  the  country  of  his  arclibishop,  as 
well  as  that  of  those  great  personages  whose  under- 
standings were  too  sublime  to  taste  anything  but 
tragedy,  and  in  many  others.  The  same  mistakes 
may  likewise  be  observed  in  Scarron,  the  Arabian 
Nights,  the  History  of  Marianne  and  le  Paisan  Par- 
venu, and  pcrliaps  some  few  other  writers  of  this 
class,  whom  I  have  not  read,  or  do  not  at  present 
recollect ;  for  I  would  by  no  means  be  thought  to 
comprehend  those  persons  of  surprizing  genius,  the 
authors  of  immense  romances,  or  the  modern  novel 
and  Atalantis  writers ;  who,  without  any  assistance 
from  nature  or  history,  record  persons  who  never 
were,  or  will  be,  and  facts  which  never  did,  nor  pos- 
sibly can,  happen ;  whose  heroes  are  of  their  own 
creation,  and  their  brains  the  chaos  whence  all  their 
materials  are  selected.  Not  that  such  writers  deserve 
no  honour  ;  so  far  otherwise,  that  perhaps  they  merit 
the  hiirhest ;  for  what  can  be  nobler  than  to  be  as  an 
example  of  the  wonderful  extent  of  human  genius  ? 
One  may  apply  to  them  what  Balzac  says  of  Aris- 
totle, that  they  are  a  second  nature  (for  they  have 
no  communication  with  the  first ;  by  which,  authors 
of  an  inferior  class,  who  cannot  stand  alone,  are 
obliged  to  support  themselves  as  with  crutches)  ;  but 
these  of  whom  I  am  now  speaking  seem  to  be  pos- 
sessed of  those  stilts,  which  the  excellent  Voltaire 
tells  us,  in  his  letters,  "  carry  the  genius  far  off,  but 
with  an  regular  pace."  Indeed,  far  out  of  the  sight 
of  the  reader. 

Beyond  the  realm  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 

[36] 


TYPES    OF    CHARACTER 

But  to  return  to  the  former  class,  who  are  con- 
tented to  copy  nature,  instead  of  forming  originals 
from  the  confused  heap  of  matter  in  their  own  brains, 
is  not  such  a  book  as  that  which  records  the  achieve- 
ments of  the  renowned  Don  Quixote  more  worthy 
the  name  of  a  history  than  even  Mariana's :  for, 
whereas  the  latter  is  confined  to  a  particular  period 
of  time,  and  to  a  particular  nation,  the  former 
is  the  history  of  the  world  in  general,  at  least  that 
part  which  is  polished  by  laws,  arts,  and  sciences; 
and  of  that  from  the  time  it  was  first  polished  to 
this  day ;  nay,  and  forwards  as  long  as  it  shall 
so  remain  ? 

I  shall  now-  proceed  to  apply  these  observations  to 
the  w  ork  before  us  ;  for  indeed  I  have  set  them  down 
principally  to  obviate  some  constructions  which  the 
good  nature  of  mankind,  who  are  always  forward  to 
see  their  friends*'  virtues  recorded,  may  put  to  par- 
ticular parts,  I  question  not  but  several  of  my 
readers  will  know  the  lawyer  in  the  stage-coach  the 
moment  they  hear  his  voice.  It  is  likewise  odds  but 
the  wit  and  the  prude  meet  with  some  of  their 
acquaintance,  as  well  as  all  the  rest  of  my  characters. 
To  prevent,  therefore,  any  such  malicious  applica- 
tions, I  declare  here,  once  for  all,  I  describe  not  men, 
but  manners  ;  not  an  individual,  but  a  species.  Per- 
haps it  will  be  answered.  Are  not  the  characters  then 
taken  from  life  ?  To  which  I  answer  in  the  afliirma- 
tive ;  nay,  I  believe  I  might  aver  that  I  have  writ 
little  more  than  I  have  seen.  The  lawyer  is  not 
only  alive,  but  hath  been  so  these  four  thousand 
years  ;  and  I  hope  G —  w  ill  indulge  his  life  as  many 

rsT] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

jet  to  come.  He  hath  not  indeed  confined  himself 
to  one  profession,  one  rehgion,  or  one  country ;  but 
when  the  first  mean  selfish  creature  appeared  on  the 
human  stage,  who  made  self  the  centre  of  the  whole 
creation,  would  give  himself  no  pain,  incur  no  danger, 
advance  no  money,  to  assist  or  preserve  his  fellow- 
creatures;  then  was  our  lawyer  born  ;  and,  whilst 
such  a  pei'son  as  I  have  described  exists  on  earth,  so 
long  shall  he  remain  upon  it.  It  is,  therefore,  do- 
ing liim  little  honour  to  imagine  he  endeavours  to 
mimick  some  little  obscure  fellow,  because  he  hap- 
pens to  resemble  him  in  one  particular  feature,  or 
perhaps  in  his  profession  ;  whereas  his  appearance  in 
the  world  is  calculated  for  much  more  general  and 
noble  purposes  ;  not  to  expose  one  pitiful  wretch  to 
the  small  and  contemptible  circle  of  his  acquaintance  ; 
but  to  hold  the  glass  to  thousands  in  their  closets, 
that  they  may  contemplate  their  deformity,  and  en- 
deavour to  reduce  it,  and  thus  by  suffering  private 
mortification  may  avoid  public  shame.  This  places 
the  boundary  between,  and  distinguishes  the  satirist 
from  the  libeller:  for  the  former  privately  corrects 
the  fault  for  the  benefit  of  the  person,  like  a  parent ; 
the  latter  publickly  exposes  the  person  himself,  as  an 
example  to  othei's,  like  an  executioner. 

There  are  besides  little  circumstances  to  be  con- 
sidered ;  as  the  drapery  of  a  picture,  which  though 
fashion  varies  at  different  times,  the  resemblance  of 
the  countenance  is  not  by  those  means  diminished. 
Thus  I  believe  we  may  venture  to  say  Mrs,  Tow- 
wouse  is  coeval  with  our  lawyer  :  and,  though  perhaps, 
during  the  changes  which  so  long  an  existence  must 

[38] 


NATURAL    SUPERIORITY 

have  passed  tlirough,  she  may  in  her  turn  have  stood 
behind  the  bar  at  an  inn,  I  will  not  scruple  to  affirm 
she  hath  likewise  in  the  revolution  of  ages  sat  oi^) 
a  throne.  In  short,  where  extreme  turbulency  of 
temper,  avarice,  and  an  insensibility  of  human  misery, 
with  a  degree  of  hypocrisy,  have  united  in  a  female 
composition,  Mrs.  Tow-wouse  was  that  woman  ;  and 
where  a  good  inclination,  eclipsed  by  a  poverty  of 
spirit  and  understanding,  hath  glimmered  forth  in 
a  man,  that  man  hath  been  no  other  than  her  sneak- 
ing husband. 

I  shall  detain  mv  reader  no  longer  than  to  give 
him  one  caution  more  of  an  opposite  kind:  for,  as  in 
most  of  our  pai'ticular  characters  we  mean  not  to 
lash  individuals,  but  all  of  the  like  sort,  so,  in  our 
general  descriptions,  we  mean  not  universals,  but 
w  ould  be  understood  with  many  exceptions :  for 
instance,  in  our  description  of  high  people,  we  can- 
not be  intended  to  include  such  as,  whilst  thev  are 
an  honour  to  their  high  rank,  by  a  well-guided 
condescension  make  their  superiority  as  easy  as 
possible  to  those  whom  fortune  chiefly  hath  placed 
below  them.  Of  this  number  I  could  name  a  peer 
no  less  elevated  by  nature  than  by  fortune;  who, 
whilst  he  wears  the  noblest  ensigns  of  honour  on  his 
person,  bears  the  truest  stamp  of  dignitv  on  his  mind, 
adorned  with  greatness,  enriched  with  knowledge, 
and  embellished  with  genius.  I  have  seen  this  man 
relieve  with  generosity,  whil-?  he  hath  conversed  with 
freedom,  and  be  to  the  same  person  a  patron  and  a 
companion.  I  could  name  a  commoner,  raised  higher 
above  the  multitude  bv  superior  talents  thar/  is  in 

[39] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

the  power  of  his  prince  to  exalt  him,  whose  behaviour 
to  those  he  hath  obliged  is  more  amiable  than  the 
obligation  itself;  and  who  is  so  great  a  master  of 
affability,  that,  if  he  could  divest  himself  of  an 
inherent  greatness  in  his  manner,  would  often  make 
the  lowest  of  his  acquaintance  forget  who  was  the 
master  of  that  palace  in  which  they  are  so  courteously 
entertained.  These  are  pictures  which  must  be,  I 
believe,  known  :  I  declare  they  are  taken  from  the 
life,  and  not  intended  to  exceed  it.  By  those  high 
people,  therefore,  whom  I  have  described,  I  mean  a 
set  of  wretches,  who,  while  they  are  a  disgrace  to 
their  ancestors,  whose  honours  and  fortunes  they 
inherit  (or  perhaps  a  greater  to  their  mother,  for 
such  degeneracy  is  scarce  credible),  have  the  insolence 
to  treat  those  with  disregard  who  are  at  least  equal 
to  the  founders  of  their  own  splendour.  It  is,  I  fancy, 
impossible  to  conceive  a  spectacle  more  worthy  of 
our  indignation,  than  that  of  a  fellow,  who  is  not 
only  a  blot  in  the  escutcheon  of  a  great  family,  but 
a  scandal  to  the  human  species,  maintaining  a  super- 
cilious behaviour  to  men  who  are  an  honour  to  their 
nature  and  a  disgrace  to  their  fortune. 

And  now,  reader,  taking  these  hints  along  with 
you,  you  may,  if  you  please,  proceed  to  the  sequel 
of  this  our  true  history. 


[40 


CHAPTER    TWO 

A  NIGHT  SCENE,  WHEREIN  SEVERAL  WONDERFUL  AD- 
VENTURES BEFEL  ADAMS  AND  HIS  FELLOW- 
TRAVELLERS. 

IT  was  SO  late  when  our  travellers  left  the  inn 
or  alehouse  (for  it  might  be  called  either),  that 
they  had  not  travelled  many  miles  before 
night  overtook  them,  or  met  them,  which  you 
please.  The  reader  must  excuse  lue  if  I  am  not 
particular  as  to  the  way  they  took  ;  for,  as  we  are 
now  drawing  near  the  seat  of  the  Boobies,  and  as 
that  is  a  ticklish  name,  which  malicious  persons  may 
apply,  according  to  their  evil  inclinations,  to  several 
worthy  country  squires,  a  race  of  men  whom  we  look 
upon  as  entirely  inoffensive,  and  for  whom  we  have 
an  adequate  regard,  we  shall  lend  no  assistance  to 
any  such  malicious  purposes. 

Darkness  had  now  overspread  the  hemisphere, 
when  Fanny  whispered  Joseph  "  that  she  begged  to 
rest  herself  a  little  ;  for  that  she  was  so  tired  she 
could  walk  no  farther."  Joseph  immediately  pre- 
vailed with  parson  Adams,  who  was  as  brisk  as  a 
bee,  to  stop.  He  had  no  sooner  seated  himself  than 
he  lamented  the  loss  of  his  dear  ^schylus ;  but  was 
a  little  comforted  when  reminded  that,  if  he  had  it 
in  his  possession,  he  could  not  see  to  read. 

[41] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

The  sky  was  so  clouded,  that  not  a  star  appeared. 
It  was  indeed,  according  to  Milton,  darkness  visible. 
This  was  a  circumstance,  however,  very  favourable  to 
Joseph ;  for  Fanny,  not  suspicious  of  being  overseen 
by  Adams,  gave  a  loose  to  her  passion  which  she 
had  never  done  before,  and,  reclining  her  head  on 
his  bosom,  threw  her  arm  carelessly  round  him,  and 
suffered  him  to  lay  his  cheek  close  to  hers.  All  this 
infused  such  happiness  into  Joseph,  that  he  would 
not  have  changed  his  turf  for  the  finest  down  in 
the  finest  palace  in  the  universe. 

Adams  sat  at  some  distance  from  the  lovers,  and, 
being  unwilling  to  disturb  them,  applied  himself  to 
meditation  ;  in  which  he  had  not  spent  much  time 
before  he  discovered  a  light  at  some  distance  that 
seemed  approaching  towards  him.  He  immediately 
hailed  it ;  but,  to  his  sorrow  and  surprize,  it  stopped 
for  a  moment,  and  then  disappeared.  He  then  called 
to  Joseph,  asking  him,  "if  he  had  not  seen  the 
light  ?  "  Joseph  answered,  "  he  had.''  —  "  And  did 
you  not  mark  how  it  vanished  ? "  returned  he : 
"  though  I  am  not  afraid  of  ghosts,  I  do  not  abso- 
lutely  disbelieve  them." 

He  then  entered  into  a  meditation  on  those  un- 
substantial beings;  which  was  soon  interrupted  by 
several  voices,  which  he  thought  almost  at  his  elbow, 
though  in  fact  they  were  not  so  extremely  near. 
However,  he  could  distinctly  hear  them  agree  on  the 
murder  of  any  one  they  met ;  and  a  little  after  heard 
one  of  them  say,  "  he  had  killed  a  dozen  since  that 
day  fortnight."" 

Adams  now  fell  on  his  knees,  and  committed  him- 

[42] 


A    NIGHT    SCENE 

self  to  the  care  of  Providence  ;  and  poor  Fanny,  who 
hkewise  heard  those  terrible  words,  embraced  Joseph 
so  closely,  that  had  not  he,  whose  ears  were  also  open, 
been  apprehensive  on  her  account,  he  would  have 
thought  no  danger  which  threatened  only  himself 
too  dear  a  price  for  such  embraces. 

Joseph  now  drew  forth  his  penknife,  and  Adams, 
having  finished  his  ejaculations,  grasped  his  crab- 
stick,  his  only  weapon,  and,  coming  up  to  Joseph, 
would  have  had  him  quit  Fanny,  and  place  her  in  the 
rear  ;  but  his  advice  was  fruitless ;  she  clung  closer  to 
him,  not  at  all  regarding  the  presence  of  Adams, 
and  in  a  soothing  voice  declared,  "  she  would  die  in 
his  arms."  Joseph,  clasping  her  with  inexpressible 
eagerness,  whispered  her,  "that  he  preferred  death 
in  hers  to  life  out  of  them.^'  Adams,  brandishing 
his  crabstick,  said,  "he  despised  death  as  much  as 
any  man,"  and  then  repeated  aloud  — 

"  Est  hie,  est  animus  lueis  eontemptor  et  ilium. 
Qui  vita  bene  credat  enii  quo  tendis,  honorem." 

Upon  this  the  voices  ceased  for  a  moment,  and 
then  one  of  them  called  out,  "  D — n  you,  who  is 
there  ? "  To  which  Adams  was  prudent  enough  to 
make  no  reply  ;  and  of  a  sudden  he  observed  half-a- 
dozen  lights,  which  seemed  to  rise  all  at  once  from 
the  ground  and  advance  briskly  towards  him.  This 
he  innnediately  concluded  to  be  an  apparition  ;  and 
now,  beginning  to  conceive  that  the  voices  were  of 
the  same  kind,  he  called  out,  *'  In  the  name  of  the 
L — d,  what  wouldst  thou  have  ?  "  He  had  no  sooner 
spoke   than    he   heard    one   of  the    voices  cry  out, 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

«  D — n  them,  here  they  come  ;  "  and  soon  after  heard 
several  hearty  blows,  as  if  a  number  of  men  had  been 
engaged  at  quarterstaff.  He  was  just  advancing  to- 
wards the  place  of  combat,  when  Joseph,  catching 
him  by  the  skirts,  begged  him  that  they  might  take 
the  opportunity  of  the  dark  to  convey  away  Fanny 
from  the  danger  which  threatened  her.  He  presently 
complied,  and,  Joseph  lifting  up  Fanny,  they  all 
three  made  the  best  of  their  way ;  and  without 
looking  behind  them,  or  being  overtaken,  they  had 
travelled  full  two  miles,  poor  Fanny  not  once  com- 
plaining of  being  tired,  when  they  saw  afar  off  several 
lights  scattered  at  a  small  distance  from  each  other, 
and  at  the  same  time  found  themselves  on  the  descent 
of  a  very  steep  hill.  Adams's  foot  slipping,  he  in- 
stantly disappeared,  which  greatly  frightened  both 
Joseph  and  Fanny  :  indeed,  if  the  light  had  per- 
mitted them  to  see  it,  they  would  scarce  have  re- 
frained laughing  to  see  the  parson  rolling  down  the 
hill ;  which  he  did  from  top  to  bottom,  without 
receiving  any  harm.  He  then  hollowed  as  loud  as 
he  could,  to  inform  them  of  his  safety,  and  relieve 
them  from  the  fears  which  they  had  conceived  for 
him.  Joseph  and  Fanny  halted  some  time,  consider- 
ing what  to  do ;  at  last  they  advanced  a  few  paces, 
where  the  declivity  seemed  least  steep  ;  and  then 
Joseph,  taking  his  Fanny  in  his  arms,  walked  firmly 
down  the  hill,  without  making  a  false  step,  and  at 
length  landed  her  at  the  bottom,  where  Adams  soon 
came  to  them. 

Learn  hence,  my  fair  countrywomen,  to  consider 
your  own  weakness,  and  the  many  occasions  on  which 

[  44  ] 


SEEKING    SHELTER 

the  strength  of  a  man  may  be  useful  to  vou  ;  and, 
duly  wei£^hin<r  this,  take  care  that  vou  match  not 
yourselves  with  the  spindle-shanked  beaus  and  yet'it- 
maitres  of  the  age,  who,  instead  of  being  able,  like 
Joseph  Andrews,  to  carry  you  in  lusty  arms  through 
the  rugged  ways  and  downhill  steeps  of  life,  will 
rather  want  to  support  their  feeble  limbs  with  your 
strength  and  assistance. 

Our  travellers  now  moved  forwards  where  the  near- 
est light  presented  itself;  and,  having  crossed  a 
common  field,  they  came  to  a  meadow,  where  they 
seemed  to  be  at  a  very  little  distance  from  the  light, 
when,  to  their  grief,  they  arrived  at  the  banks  of  a 
river.  Adams  here  made  a  full  stop,  and  declared 
he  could  swim,  but  doubted  how  it  was  possible 
to  get  Fanny  over :  to  which  Joseph  answered,  "  If 
they  walked  along  its  banks,  they  might  be  certain 
of  soon  finding  a  bridge,  especially  as  by  the  number 
of  lights  they  might  be  assured  a  parish  was  near.*" 
"  Odso,  that 's  true  indeed,"  said  Adams  ;  "  I  did  not 
think  of  that." 

Accordingly,  Joseph's  advice  being  taken,  they 
passed  over  two  meadows,  and  can^.e  to  a  little 
orchard,  which  led  them  to  a  house.  Fanny  begged 
of  Joseph  to  knock  at  the  door,  assuring  him  "  she  was 
so  weary  that  she  could  hardly  stand  on  her  feet." 
Adams,  who  was  foremost,  performed  this  ceremony  ; 
and,  the  door  being  immediately  opened,  a  plain 
kind  of  man  appeared  at  it :  Adams  acquainted 
him  *'  that  they  had  a  young  woman  with  them 
who  was  so  tired  with  her  journey  that  he  should 
be  much  obliged  to  him  if  he  would  suffer  her  to 

[45] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

come  in  and  rest  herself.""'  The  man,  who  saw  Fanny 
by  the  light  of  the  candle  which  he  held  in  his  hand, 
perceiving  her  innocent  and  modest  look,  and  having 
no  apprehensions  from  the  civil  behaviour  of  Adams, 
presently  answered,  "  That  the  young  woman  was 
very  welcome  to  rest  herself  in  his  house,  and  so  were 
her  company."  He  then  ushered  them  into  a  very 
decent  room,  where  his  wife  was  sitting  at  a  table  : 
she  innnediately  rose  up,  and  assisted  them  in  setting 
forth  chairs,  and  desired  them  to  sit  down  ;  which 
they  had  no  sooner  done  than  the  man  of  the  house 
asked  them  if  they  would  have  anything  to  refresh 
themselves  with  ?  Adams  thanked  him,  and  answered 
he  should  be  obliged  to  him  for  a  cup  of  his  ale, 
which  was  likewise  chosen  by  Joseph  and  Fanny. 
Whilst  he  was  gone  to  fill  a  very  large  jug  with  this 
liquor,  his  wife  told  Fanny  she  seemed  greatly 
fatigued,  and  desired  her  to  take  something  stronger 
than  ale  ;  but  she  refused  with  many  thanks,  saying 
it  was  true  she  was  very  much  tired,  but  a  little  rest 
she  hoped  would  restore  her.  As  soon  as  the  com- 
pany were  all  seated,  Mr.  Adams,  who  had  filled  him- 
self with  ale,  and  by  public  permission  had  lighted 
his  pipe,  turned  to  the  master  of  the  house,  asking 
him,  "  If  evil  spirits  did  not  use  to  walk  in  that 
neighbourhood?"  To  which  receiving  no  answer, 
he  began  to  inform  him  of  the  adventure  which  they 
met  with  on  the  downs  ;  nor  had  he  proceeded  fiar 
in  the  story  when  somebody  knocked  very  hard  at 
the  door.  The  company  expressed  some  amazement, 
and  Fanny  and  the  good  woman  turned  pale :  her 
husband  went  forth,  and  whilst  he  was  absent,  which 

[46] 


THE    SHEEP-STEALERS 

was  some  time,  they  all  remained  silent,  looking  at 
one  another,  and  heard  several  voices  discoursing 
prettv  loudlv,  Adams  was  fully  persuaded  that 
spirits  were  abroad,  and  began  to  meditate  some 
exorcisms ;  Joseph  a  little  inclined  to  the  same  opin- 
ion ;  Fanny  was  more  afraid  of  men  ;  and  the  good 
woman  herself  began  to  suspect  her  guests,  and 
imagined  those  without  were  rogues  belonging  to 
their  ffans:.  At  len«;th  the  master  of  the  house  re- 
turned,  and,  laughing,  told  Adams  he  had  discovered 
his  apparition  ;  that  the  murderers  were  sheep- 
stealers,  and  the  twelve  persons  murdered  were  no 
other  than  twelve  sheep ;  adding,  that  the  shepherds 
had  got  the  better  of  them,  had  secured  two,  and 
were  proceeding  with  them  to  a  justice  of  peace. 
This  account  sreatlv  relieved  the  fears  of  the  whole 
company ;  but  Adams  muttered  to  himself,  "  He 
was  convinced  of  the  truth  of  apparitions  for  all 
that." 

They  now  sat  chearfully  round  the  fire,  till  the 
master  of  the  house,  having  surveyed  his  guests,  and 
conceiving  that  the  cassock,  which,  having  fallen 
down,  appeared  under  Adams''s  greatcoat,  and  the 
shabby  livery  on  Joseph  Andrews,  did  not  well  suit 
with  the  familiarity  between  them,  began  to  enter- 
tain some  suspicions  not  much  to  their  advantage  : 
addressing  himself  therefore  to  Adams,  he  said, 
"  He  perceived  he  was  a  clergyman  by  his  dress,  and 
supposed  that  honest  man  was  his  footman."  "  Sir," 
answered  Adams,  "  I  am  a  clergyman  at  your 
service ;  but  as  to  that  young  man,  whom  you  have 
rightly  termed  honest,  he  is  at  present  in  nobody's 

[47] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

service ;  he  never  lived  in  any  other  family  than  that 
of  Lady  Booby,  from  whence  he  was  discharged,  I 
assure  you,  for  no  crime."  Joseph  said,  "He  did 
not  wonder  the  gentleman  was  surprized  to  see  one 
of  Mr.  Adams's  character  condescend  to  so  much 
goodness  with  a  poor  man."  —  "  Child,"  said  Adams, 
"  I  should  be  asliamed  of  my  cloth  if  I  thought  a 
poor  man,  who  is  honest,  below  my  notice  or  my 
familiarity.  I  know  not  how  those  who  think  other- 
wise can  profess  themselves  followers  and  servants  of 
Him  who  made  no  distinction,  unless,  peradventure, 
by  preferring  the  poor  to  the  rich.  —  Sir,"  said  he, 
addressing  himself  to  the  gentleman,  "  these  two 
poor  young  people  are  my  parishioners,  and  I  look  on 
them  and  love  them  as  my  children.  There  is  some- 
thing singular  enough  in  their  history,  but  I  have 
not  now  time  to  recount  it."  The  master  of  the 
house,  notwithstanding  the  simplicity  which  dis- 
covered itself  in  Adams,  knew  too  much  of  the 
world  to  give  a  hasty  belief  to  professions.  He  was 
not  yet  quite  certain  that  Adams  had  any  more  of 
the  clergyman  in  him  than  his  cassock.  To  try  him 
therefore  further,  he  asked  him,  "  If  Mr.  Pope  had 
lately  published  anything  new  ?  "  Adams  answered, 
"  He  had  heard  great  commendations  of  that  poet, 
but  that  he  had  never  read  nor  knew  any  of  his 
works."  —  "  Ho  !  ho  !  "  says  the  gentleman  to  him- 
self, "  have  I  caught  you  ?  What !  "  said  he,  "  have 
you  never  seen  his  Homer  ?"  Adams  answered,  "  he 
had  never  read  any  translation  of  the  classicks." 
"  Why,  truly,"  reply 'd  the  gentleman,  "  there  is  a 
dignity  in  the  Greek    language  which    I    think    no 

[48] 


THE    CLASSICS 

modern  tongue  can  reach.""  —  "  Do  you  understand 
Greek,  sir?"  said  Adams  hastily.  "A  Httle,  sir," 
answered  the  gentleman.  "  Do  you  know,  sir,"  cry'd 
Adams,  '*  where  I  can  buy  an  yEschylus  ?  an  unlucky 
misfortune  lately  happened  to  mine."  ^schylus 
was  beyond  tlie  gentleman,  though  he  knew  him 
very  well  by  name ;  he  therefore,  returning  back  to 
Homer,  asked  Adams,  "  What  part  of  the  Iliad  he 
thought  most  excellent  ? "  Adams  returned,  "  His 
question  would  be  properer,  AVliat  kind  of  beauty 
was  the  chief  in  poetry  ?  for  that  Homer  was  equally 
excellent  in  them  all.  And,  indeed,"  continued  he, 
"  what  Cicero  says  of  a  complete  orator  may  w  ell  be 
applied  to  a  great  poet :  '  He  ought  to  comprehend 
all  perfections.'  Homer  did  this  in  the  most  ex- 
cellent degree  ;  it  is  not  without  reason,  therefore, 
that  the  philosopher,  in  the  twenty-second  chapter 
of  his  Poeticks,  mentions  him  by  no  other  appellation 
than  that  of  the  Poet.  He  was  the  father  of  the 
drama  as  well  as  the  epic  ;  not  of  tragedy  only,  but 
of  comedy  also  ;  for  his  Margites,  which  is  deplorably 
lost,    bore,    says   Aristotle,    the    same    analogy    to  a   /t^ 

comedy  as  his  Odyssey  and   Iliad  to  tragedy.     To  "'    y 

him,  therefore,  we  owe  Aristophanes  as  well  as 
Euripides,  Sophocles,  and  my  poor  .Eschylus.  But 
if  you  please  we  will  confine  ourselves  (at  least  for 
the  present)  to  the  Iliad,  his  noblest  work ;  though 
neither  Aristotle  nor  Horace  give  it  the  preference, 
as  I  remember,  to  the  Odyssey.  First,  then,  as  to 
his  subject,  can  anything  be  more  simple,  and  at  the 
same  time  more  noble.?  He  is  rightly  praised  by 
the  first  of  those  judicious  critics  for  not  chusing  the 
VOL.  II.  — 4.  [  4'9  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

whole  war,  which,  tliough  he  says  it  hath  a  complete 
beginning  and  end,  would  have  been  too  great  for 
the  understanding  to  comprehend  at  one  view.  I 
have,  therefore,  often  wondered  why  so  correct  a 
writer  as  Horace  should,  in  his  epistle  to  Lollius, 
call  him  the  Trojani  Belli  Scriptorem.  Secondly, 
his  action,  termed  by  Aristotle,  Pragmaton  Systasis ; 
is  it  possible  for  the  mind  of  man  to  conceive  an  idea 
of  such  perfect  unitv,  and  at  the  same  time  so  replete 
with  greatness  ?  And  here  I  must  observe,  what  I 
do  hot  remember  to  have  seen  noted  by  any,  the 
Harmotton,  that  agreement  of  his  action  to  his 
subject :  for,  as  the  subject  is  anger,  how  agreeable 
is  his  action,  which  is  war  ;  from  which  every  inci- 
dent arises  and  to  which  every  episode  immediately 
relates.  Thirdly,  his  manners,  which  Aristotle 
places  second  in  his  description  of  the  several  parts 
of  tragedy,  and  which  he  says  are  included  in  the 
action  ;  I  am  at  a  loss  whether  I  should  rather 
admire  the  exactness  of  his  judgment  in  the  nice 
distinction  or  the  immensity  of  his  imagination  in 
their  variety.  For,  as  to  the  former  of  these,  how 
accurately  is  the  sedate,  injured  resentment  of 
Achilles,  distinguished  from  the  hot,  insulting  pas- 
sion of  Agamennion  !  How  widely  doth  the  brutal 
courage  of  Ajax  differ  from  the  amiable  bravery  of 
Diomedes  ;  and  the  wisdom  of  Nestoi-,  which  is  the 
result  of  long  reflection  and  experience,  from  the 
cumiing  of  Ulysses,  the  effect  of  art  and  subtlety 
only  !  If  we  consider  their  variety,  we  may  cry  out, 
with  Aristotle  in  his  24th  chapter,  that  no  part  of 
this  divine  poem  is  destitute  of  manners.     Indeed,  I 

[50] 


SOPHOCLES 

niiffht  affirm  that  there  is  scarce  a  character  in 
human  nature  untouched  in  some  part  or  other. 
And,  as  there  is  no  passion  which  he  is  not  able  to 
describe,  so  is  thei-e  none  in  his  reader  which  he  can- 
not raise.  If  he  hath  any  superior  excellence  to 
the  rest,  I  have  been  inclined  to  fancy  it  is  in  the 
pathetic.  I  am  sure  I  never  read  with  dry  eyes  the 
two  episodes  where  Andromache  is  introduced  in 
the  former  lamenting  the  danger,  and  in  the  latter 
the  death,  of  Hec-tor.  The  images  are  so  extremely 
tender  in  these,  that  I  am  convinced  the  poet  had 
the  worthiest  and  best  heart  imaginable.  Nor 
can  I  help  observing  how  Sophocles  falls  short  of 
the  beauties  of  the  original,  in  that  imitation  of  the 
dissuasive  speech  of  Andromache  which  he  hath  put 
into  the  mouth  of  Tecmessa.  And  yet  Sophocles 
was  the  greatest  genius  who  ever  wrote  tragedy  ;  nor 
have  any  of  his  successors  in  that  art,  that  is  to  say, 
neither  Euripides  nor  Seneca  the  tragedian,  been 
able  to  come  near  him.  As  to  his  sentiments  and 
diction,  I  need  say  nothing ;  the  former  are  par- 
ticularly remarkable  for  the  utmost  perfection  on 
that  head,  namely,  propriety  ;  and  as  to  the  latter, 
Aristotle,  whom  doubtless  you  have  read  over  and 
over,  is  very  diffuse.  I  shall  mention  but  one  thing 
more,  which  that  great  critic  in  his  division  of 
tragedy  calls  Opsis,  or  the  scenery ;  and  which  is  as 
proper  to  the  epic  as  to  the  drama,  with  this  differ- 
ence, that  in  the  former  it  falls  to  the  share  of  the 
poet,  and  in  the  latter  to  that  of  the  painter.  But 
did  ever  painter  imagine  a  scene  like  that  in  the 
13th  and  14th  Iliads?  where  the  reader  sees  at  one 

[51] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

view  the  prospect  of  Troy,  with  the  army  drawn  up 
before    it;    the    Grecian    army,    camp,    and    fleet; 
Jupiter  sitting  on  Mount  Ida,  with  his  head  wrapt 
in  a  cloud,  and  a  thunderbolt  in  his  hand,  looking 
towards  Thrace  ;  Neptune  driving  through  the  sea, 
which  divides  on  each  side  to   permit   his  passage, 
and    then    seating    himself  on    Mount  Samos  ;   the 
heavens  opened,  and  the  deities  all  seated  on  their 
thrones.    This  is  sublime  !    This  is  poetry  ! '''    Adams 
then  rapt  out  a  hundred  Greek  verses,  and  with  such 
a  voice,  emphasis,  and  action,  that  he  almost  fright- 
ened the  women  ;  and  as  for  the  gentleman,  he  was 
so  far  from  entertaining  any    further   suspicion  of 
Adams,  that  he  now  doubted  whether  he  had  not  a 
bishop  in  his  house.      He  ran  into  the  most  extrava- 
gant encomiums  on  his  learning ;  and  the  goodness 
of  his  heart  began  to  dilate  to  all  the  strangers.     He 
said   he  had  great  compassion  for  the  poor   young 
woman,  who  looked  pale  and  faint  with  her  journey ; 
and  in  truth  he  conceived  a  much  higher  opinion  of 
her  quality  than  it  deserved.     He  said  he  was  sorry 
he  could  not  accommodate  them  all ;  but  if  they 
were  contented  with  his   fireside,  he   would  sit  up 
with  the  men ;  and  the  young  woman  might,  if  she 
pleased,  partake  his  wife's  bed,  which  he  advised  her 
to ;  for  that  they  must  walk  upwards  of  a  mile  to 
any  house  of  entertainment,  and  that  not  very  good 
neither.     Adams,    who  liked   his  seat,    his   ale,  his 
tobacco,    and    his    company,    persuaded    Fanny   to 
accept  this  kind  proposal,  in  which  sollicitation  he 
was   seconded   by  Joseph.     Nor  was  she  very  diffi- 
cultly prevailed  on  ;  for  she  had  slept  little  the  last 

[52] 


CONFIDENCES 

night  and  not  at  all  the  preceding  ;  so  that  love 
itself  was  scarce  able  to  keep  her  eyes  open  any 
longer.  The  ofFer,  therefore,  being  kindly  accepted, 
the  good  woman  produced  everything  eatable  in  her 
house  on  the  table,  and  the  guests,  being  heartily  in- 
vited, as  heartily  regaled  themselves,  especially  parson 
Adams.  As  to  the  other  two,  they  were  examples 
of  the  truth  of  that  physical  observation,  that  love, 
like  other  sweet  things,  is  no  whetter  of  the  stomach. 

Supper  was  no  sooner  ended,  than  Fanny  at  her  own 
request  retired,  and  the  good  woman  bore  hercompany. 
The  man  of  the  house,  Adams,  and  Joseph,  who  would 
modestly  have  withdrawn,  had  not  the  gentleman 
insisted  on  the  contrary,  drew  round  the  fireside, 
where  Adams  (to  use  his  own  words)  replenished 
his  pipe,  and  the  gentleman  produced  a  bottle  of 
excellent  beer,  being  the  best  liquor  in  his  house. 

The  modest  behaviour  of  Joseph,  with  the  grace- 
fulness of  his  person,  the  character  which  Adams 
gave  of  him,  and  the  friendship  he  seemed  to  enter- 
tain for  him,  began  to  work  on  the  gentleman''s 
affections,  and  raised  in  him  a  curiosity  to  know  the 
singularitv  which  Adams  had  mentioned  in  his 
history.  This  curiosity  Adams  was  no  sooner  in- 
formed of  than,  with  Joseph's  consent,  he  agreed  to 
gratify  it ;  and  accordingly  related  all  he  knew, 
with  as  much  tenderness  as  was  possible  for  the 
character  of  Lady  Booby  ;  and  concluded  with  the 
long,  faithful,  and  mutual  passion  between  him  and 
Fanny,  not  concealing  the  meanness  of  her  birth  and 
education.  These  latter  circumstances  entirely  cured 
a  jealousy  which  had  lately  risen  in  the  gentleman's 

[53] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

mind,  that  Fanny  was  the  daughter  of  .some  person 
of  fashion,  and  that  Joseph  had  run  away  with  her, 
and  Adams  was  concerned  in  the  plot.  He  was  now 
enamoured  of  his  guests,  drank  their  healths  with 
great  chearfulness,  and  returned  many  thanks  to 
Adams,  who  had  spent  nmch  breath,  for  he  was  a 
circumstantial  teller  of  a  story. 

Adams  told  him  it  was  now  in  his  power  to  return 
that  fovour ;  for  his  extraordinary  goodness,  as  well 
as  that  fund  of  literature  he  was  master  of,^  which 
he  did  not  expect  to  find  under  such  a  roof,  had 
raised  in  him  more  curiosity  than  he  had  ever 
known.  ''  Therefore,"  said  he,  "  if  it  be  not  too 
troublesome,  sir,  your  history,  if  you  please." 

The  gentleman  answered,  he  could  not  refuse  him 
what  he  had  so  much  right  to  insist  on  ;  and  after 
some  of  the  connnon' apologies,  which  are  the  usual 
preface  to  a  story,  he  thus  began. 

1  The  author  hath  by  some  been  represented  to  have  made  a 
blunder  here  :  for  Adams  had  indeed  shown  some  learning 
( say  they  ) ,  perhaps  all  the  author  had  ;  but  the  gentleman 
hath  shown  none,  unless  his  approbation  of  Mr.  Adams  be 
such  :  but  surely  it  would  be  preposterous  in  hira  to  call  it  so. 
I  have,  however,  notwithstanding  this  criticism,  which  I  am 
told  came  from  the  mouth  of  a  great  orator  in  a  public  coffee- 
house, left  this  blunder  as  it  stood  in  the  first  edition.  I  will 
not  have  the  vanity  to  apply  to  anything  in  this  work  the 
observation  which  M.  Dacier  makes  in  her  preface  to  her 
Aristophanes  :  Je  tiens  pour  une  maxime  constante,  qu'une 
heauli  ■m6cllocre  plait  plus  ffe?ie7-alejnent  qu'une  beautd  sans  d^/aut. 
Mr.  Congreve  hath  made  such  another  blunder  in  his  Love  for 
Love,  where  Tattle  tells  Miss  Prue,  "  She  should  admire  him  as 
much  for  the  beauty  he  commends  in  her  as  if  he  himself  was 
possessed  of  it. " 

[54] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

IN    WHICH    THE    GENTLEMAN    RELATES    THE    HISTORY    OF 

HIS  LIFE. 

SIR,  I  am  descended  of  a  good  family,  and 
was  born  a  gentleman.  My  education  was 
liberal,  and  at  a  public  school,  in  which  I 
proceeded  so  far  as  to  become  master  of  the 
Latin,  and  to  be  tolerably  versed  in  the  Greek  lan- 
guage. My  father  died  when  I  was  sixteen,  and  left 
me  master  of  myself.  He  bequeathed  me  a  mode- 
rate fortune,  which  he  intended  I  should  not  receive 
till  I  attained  the  age  of  twenty-five :  for  he  con- 
stantly asserted  that  was  full  early  enough  to  give 
up  any  man  entirely  to  the  guidance  of  his 
own  discretion.  However,  as  this  intention  was  so 
obscurely  worded  in  his  will  that  the  lawyers  advised 
me  to  contest  the  point  with  my  trustees,  I  own  I 
paid  so  little  regard  to  the  inclinations  of  my  dead 
father,  which  were  sufficiently  certain  to  me,  that 
I  followed  their  advice,  and  soon  succeeded,  for  the 
trustees  did  not  contest  the  matter  very  obstinately 
on  their  side.  "  Sir,"  said  Adams,  "  may  I  crave 
the  favour  of  your  name  ?  "  The  gentleman  answered 
his  name  was  Wilson,  and  then  proceeded. 

I  stayed  a  very  little  while  at  school  after  his 
death ;  for,  being  a  forward  youth,  I  was  extremely 
impatient  to  be  in  the  world,  for  which  I  thought 

[55] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

my  parts,  knowledge,  and  manhood  thoroughly  quali- 
fied me.  And  to  this  cai-ly  introduction  into  life, 
without  a  guide,  I  impute  all  my  future  misfortunes; 
for,  besides  the  obvious  mischiefs  which  attend  this, 
there  is  one  which  hath  not  been  so  generally  ob- 
served :  the  first  impression  which  mankind  receives 
of  you  will  be  very  difficult  to  eradicate.  How 
unhappy,  therefore,  nmst  it  be  to  fix  your  character 
in  life,  before  you  can  possibly  know  its  value,  or 
weigh  the  consequences  of  those  actions  which  are 
to  establish  your  future  reputation  ! 

A  little  under  seventeen  I  left  my  school,  and 
went  to  London  with  no  more  than  six  pounds  in 
my  pocket ;  a  great  sum,  as  I  then  conceived  ;  and 
which  I  was  afterwards  surprized  to  find  so  soon 
consumed. 

The  character  I  was  ambitious  of  attaining  was 
that  of  a  fine  gentleman  ;  the  first  requisites  to 
which  I  apprehended  were  to  be  supplied  by  a  taylor, 
a  periwig-maker,  and  some  few  more  tradesmen,  who 
deal  in  furnishing  out  the  human  body.  Notwith- 
standing the  lowness  of  my  purse,  I  found  credit 
with  them  more  easily  than  I  expected,  and  was  soon 
equipped  to  my  wish.  This  I  own  then  agreeably 
surprized  me  ;  but  I  have  since  learned  that  it  is  a 
maxim  among  many  tradesmen  at  the  polite  end  of 
the  town  to  deal  as  largely  as  they  can,  reckon  as 
high  as  they  can,  and  arrest  as  soon  as  they  can. 

The  next  qualifications,  namely,  dancing,  fencing, 
riding  the  great  horse,  and  music,  came  into  my 
head :  but,  as  they  required  expense  and  time,  I 
comforted  myself,  with  regard  to  dancing,  that  I  had 

[56] 


KNOWLEDGE    OF    THE    TOWN 

learned  a  little  in  my  youth,  and  could  walk  a 
minuet  genteelly  enough  ;  as  to  fencing,  I  thought 
my  good-humour  would  preserve  me  from  the  danger 
of  a  quarrel ;  as  to  the  horse,  I  hoped  it  would  not 
be  thought  of;  and  for  music,  I  imagined  I  could 
easily  acquire  the  reputation  of  it ;  for  I  had  heard 
some  of  my  schoolfellows  pretend  to  knowledge  in 
operas,  without  being  able  to  sing  or  play  on  the 
fiddle. 

Knowledge  of  the  town  seemed  another  ingredient ; 
this  I  thought  I  should  arrive  at  by  frequenting 
public  places.  Accordingly  I  paid  constant  attend- 
ance to  them  all ;  by  which  means  I  was  soon  master 
of  the  fashionable  phrases,  learned  to  cry  up  the 
fashionable  diversions,  and  knew  the  names  and  faces 
of  the  most  fashionable  men  and  women. 

Nothing  now  seemed  to  remain  but  an  intrigue, 
n  hich  I  was  resolved  to  have  immediately ;  I  mean 
the  reputation  of  it ;  and  indeed  I  was  so  successful, 
that  in  a  very  short  time  I  had  half-a-dozen  with 
the  finest  women  in  town. 

At  these  words  Adams  fetched  a  deep  groan,  and 
then,  blessing  himself,  cried  out,  "  Good  Lord  !  what 
wicked  times  these  are  ! '' 

Not  so  wicked  as  you  imagine,  continued  the 
gentleman  ;  for  I  assure  you  they  were  all  vestal 
virgins  for  anything  which  I  knew  to  the  contrary. 
The  reputation  of  intriguing  with  them  was  all 
I  sought,  and  was  what  I  arrived  at :  and  perhaps  I 
only  flattered  myself  even  in  that ;  for  very  probably 
the  persons  to  whom  I  showed  their  billets  knew  a-s 
well  as  I  that  they  were  counterfeits,  and  that  I  had 

[57] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

written  them  to  myself.  ''  Write  letters  to  your- 
self!'' said  Adams,  staring.  O  sir,  answered  the 
gentleman,  it  is  the  very  error  of  the  times.  Half 
our  modern  plays  have  one  of  these  characters  in 
them.  It  is  incredible  the  pains  I  have  taken,  and 
the  absurd  methods  I  employed,  to  traduce  the 
character  of  women  of  distinction.  When  another 
had  spoken  in  raptures  of  any  one,  I  have  answered, 

"  D — n  her,  she  !     We  shall  have  her  at  H d's 

very  soon.""  When  he  hath  replied,  "  He  thought 
her  virtuous,'"  I  have  answered,  "  Ay,  thou  wilt 
always  think  a  woman  virtuous,  till  she  is  in  the 
streets ;  but  you  and  I,  Jack  or  Tom  ( turning  to 
another  in  company  ) ,  know  better."  At  which  I 
have  drawn  a  paper  out  of  my  pocket,  perhaps  a 
taylor's  bill,  and  kissed  it,  crying  at  the  same  time, 
"  By  Gad  I  was  once  fond  of  her." 

"  Proceed,  if  you  please,  but  do  not  swear  any 
more,"  said  Adams. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  I  ask  your  pardon. 
Well,  sir,  in  this  course  of  life  I  continued  full  three 
years."  —  "What  course  of  life.'^"  answered  Adams; 
"  I  do  not  remember  you  have  mentioned  any."  — 
Your  remark  is  just,  said  the  gentleman,  smiling;  I 
should  rather  have  said,  in  this  course  of  doing 
nothino;.  I  remember  some  time  afterwards  I  wrote 
the  journal  of  one  day,  which  would  serve,  I  believe, 
as  well  for  any  other  during  the  whole  time.  I  will 
endeavour  to  repeat  it  to  you. 

In  the  morning  I  arose,  took  my  great  stick,  and 
walked  out  in  my  green  frock,  with  my  hair  in  papers 
(a  groan  from  Adams),  and  sauntered  about  till  ten. 

[58] 


CHANGE    OF    SCENE 

Went  to  the  auction  ;  told  lady she  had  a  dirty 

face ;   laughed    heartily  at  something    captain  

said,  I  can't  remember  what,  for  I  did  not  very  well 

hear  it ;  whispered  lord ;  bowed  to  the  duke  of 

;  and  was  going  to  bid  for  a  snuff-box,  but  did 

not,  for  fear  I  should  have  had  it. 

From  2  to  4,  drest  myself.  A  groan. 

4  to  6,  dined.  A  groan. 

6  to  8,  coffee-house. 

8  to  9,  Drury-lane  playhouse. 

9  to  10,  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

10  to  12,  Drawing-room.       A  great  groan. 

At  all  which  places  nothing  happened  worth  remark. 
At  which  Adams  said,  with  some  vehemence,  "  Sir, 
this  is  below  the  life  of  an  animal,  hardly  above 
vegetation  :  and  I  am  surprized  what  could  lead  a 
man  of  your  sense  into  it."  What  leads  us  into 
more  follies  than  you  imagine,  doctor,  answered  the 
gentleman  —  vanity  ;  for  as  contemptible  a  creature 
as  I  was,  and  I  assure  you,  yourself  cannot  have 
more  contempt  for  such  a  wretch  than  I  now  have, 
I  then  admired  myself,  and  should  have  despised  a 
person  of  your  present  appearance  (you  will  pardon 
me),  with  all  your  learning  and  those  excellent 
qualities  which  I  have  remarked  in  you,  Adams 
bowed,  and  begged  him  to  proceed.  After  I  had 
continued  two  years  in  this  course  of  life,  said  the 
gentleman,  an  accident  happened  which  obliged  me 
to  change  the  scene.  As  I  was  one  day  at  St. 
James's  coffee-house,  making  very  free  with  the 
character  of  a  young  lady  of  quality,  an  officer  of 
the  guards,  who  was  present,  thought  proper  to  give 

[59  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

me  the  Ije.  I  answered  I  might  possibly  be  mis- 
taken, but  I  intended  to  tell  no  more  than  the 
truth.  To  which  he  made  no  reply  but  by  a  scorn- 
ful sneer.  After  this  I  observed  a  strange  coldness 
in  all  my  acquaintance  ;  none  of  them  spoke  to  me 
first,  and  very  few  returned  me  even  the  civility  of 
a  bow.  The  company  I  used  to  dine  with  left  me 
out,  and  within  a  week  I  found  myself  in  as  much 
solitude  at  St.  James's  as  if  I  had  been  in  a  desert. 
An  honest  elderly  man,  with  a  great  hat  and  long 
sword,  at  last  told  me  he  had  a  compassion  for  my 
youth,  and  therefore  advised  me  to  show  the  world 
I  was  not  such  a  rascal  as  they  thought  me  to  be. 
I  did  not  at  first  understand  him  ;  but  he  explained 
himself,  and  ended  with  telling  me,  if  I  would  write 
a  challenge  to  the  captain,  he  would,  out  of  pure 
charity,  go  to  him  with  it.  "A  very  charitable 
person,  truly  ! '"  cried  Adams.  I  desired  till  the  next 
day,  continued  the  gentleman,  to  consider  on  it, 
and,  retiring  to  my  lodgings,  I  weighed  the  conse- 
quences on  both  sides  as  fairly  as  I  could.  On  the 
one,  I  saw  the  risk  of  this  alternative,  either  losing 
my  own  life,  or  having  on  my  hands  the  blood  of 
a  man  with  whom  I  was  not  in  the  least  angry.  I 
soon  determined  that  the  good  which  appeared  on 
the  other  was  not  worth  this  hazard.  I  therefore 
resolved  to  quit  the  scene,  and  presently  retired  to 
the  Temple,  where  I  took  chambers.  Here  I  soon 
got  a  fresh  set  of  acquaintance,  who  knew  nothing 
of  what  had  happened  to  me.  Indeed,  they  were 
not  greatly  to  my  approbation ;  for  the  beaus  of  the 
Temple  are  only  the  shadows  of  the  others.     They 

[60] 


PROFLIGACY 

are  the  affectation  of  affectation.  The  vanity  of 
these  is  still  more  ridiculous,  if  possible,  than  of  the 
others.  Here  I  met  with  smart  fellows  who  drank 
with  lords  they  did  not  know,  and  intrigued  with 
women  they  never  saw.  Covent  Garden  was  now 
the  f>irthest  stretch  of  my  ambition  ;  where  I  shone 
forth  in  the  balconies  at  the  playhouses,  visited 
whores,  made  love  to  orange-wenches,  and  damned 
plays.  This  career  was  soon  put  a  stop  to  by  my 
surgeon,  who  convinced  me  of  the  necessity  of  con- 
fining myself  to  mv  room  for  a  month.  At  the  end 
of  which,  havinrc  had  leisure  to  reflect,  I  resolved  to 
quit  all  farther  conversation  with  beaus  and  smarts 
of  every  kind,  and  to  avoid,  if  possible,  any  occasion 
of  returning  to  this  place  of  confinement.  "  I 
think,'"  said  Adams  "the  advice  of  a  month''s  retire- 
ment and  reflection  was  very  proper  ;  but  I  should 
rather  have  expected  it  from  a  divine  than  a  surgeon." 
The  gentleman  smiled  at  Adams's  simplicity,  and, 
without  explaining  himself  farther  on  such  an  odious 
subject,  went  on  thus :  I  was  no  sooner  perfectly 
restored  to  health  than  I  found  my  passion  for 
women,  w'hich  I  was  afraid  to  satisfy  as  I  had  done, 
made  me  very  uneasy  ;  I  determined,  therefore,  to 
keep  a  mistress.  Nor  was  I  long  before  I  fixed  my 
choice  on  a  young  woman,  who  had  before  been  kept 
by  two  gentlemen,  and  to  whom  I  was  recommended 
by  a  celebrated  bawd.  I  took  her  home  to  my 
chambers,  and  made  her  a  settlement  during  cohabi- 
tation. This  would,  perhaps,  have  been  very  ill 
paid  :  however,  she  did  not  suffer  me  to  be  perplexed 
on  that  account ;  for,  before  quarter-day,  I  found  her 

[61] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

at  my  chambers  in  too  familiar  conversation  with  a 
young  feUow  who  was  drest  hke  an  officer,  but  was 
indeed  a  city  apprentice.  Instead  of  excusing  her 
inconstancy,  she  rapped  out  half-a-dozen  oaths,  and, 
snapping  her  fingers  at  me,  swore  she  scorned  to 
confine  herself  to  the  best  man  in  England.  Upon 
this  we  parted,  and  the  same  bawd  presently  pro- 
vided her  another  keeper.  I  was  not  so  much 
concerned  at  our  separation  as  I  found,  within  a  day 
or  two,  I  had  reason  to  be  for  our  meeting  ;  for  I 
was  obliged  to  pay  a  second  visit  to  my  surgeon.  I 
was  now  forced  to  do  penance  for  some  weeks,  during 
which  time  I  contracted  an  acquaintance  with  a 
beautiful  young  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman 
who,  after  having  been  forty  years  in  the  army,  and 
in  all  the  campaigns  under  the  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
died  a  lieutenant  on  half-pay,  and  had  left  a  widow, 
with  this  only  child,  in  very  distrest  circumstances : 
they  had  only  a  small  pension  from  the  government, 
with  what  little  the  daughter  could  add  to  it  by 
her  work,  for  she  had  great  excellence  at  her  needle. 
This  girl  was,  at  my  first  acquaintance  with  her, 
solicited  in  marriage  by  a  young  fellow  in  good  cir- 
cumstances. He  was  apprentice  to  a  linendraper, 
and  had  a  little  fortune,  sufficient  to  set  up  his  trade. 
The  mother  was  greatly  pleased  with  this  match,  as 
indeed  she  had  sufficient  reason.  However,  I  soon 
prevented  it.  I  represented  him  in  so  low  a  light  to 
his  mistress,  and  made  so  good  an  use  of  flattery, 
promises,  and  presents,  that,  not  to  dwell  longer  on 
this  subject  than  is  necessary,  I  prevailed  with  the 
poor  girl,  and  conveyed  her  away  from  her  mother ! 

[62] 


A    RUINED    LIFE 

In  a  word,  I  debauched  her.  —  (At  which  words 
Adams  started  up,  fetched  three  strides  across  the 
room,  and  then  replaced  himself  in  his  chair.)  You 
are  not  more  affected  with  this  part  of  my  story 
than  myself;  I  assure  you  it  will  never  be  sufficiently 
repented  of  in  my  own  opinion  :  but,  if  you  already 
detest  it,  how  much  more  will  your  indignation  be 
raised  when  you  hear  the  fatal  consequences  of  this 
barbarous,  this  villanous  action !  If  you  please, 
therefore,  I  will  here  desist.  —  "  By  no  means,"  cries 
Adams ;  "  go  on,  I  beseech  you  ;  and  Heaven  grant 
you  may  sincerely  repent  of  this  and  many  other 
things  you  have  related  !  "  —  I  was  now,  continued 
the  gentleman,  as  happy  as  the  possession  of  a  fine 
young  creature,  who  had  a  good  education,  and  was 
endued  with  many  agreeable  qualities,  could  make 
me.  We  lived  some  months  with  vast  fondness 
together,  without  any  company  or  conversation,  more 
than  we  found  in  one  another  but  this  could  not 
continue  always ;  and,  though  I  still  preserved  great 
affection  for  her,  I  began  more  and  more  to  want  the 
relief  of  other  company,  and  consequently  to  leave 
her  by  degrees  —  at  last  whole  days  to  herself.  She 
failed  not  to  testify  some  uneasiness  on  these  occa- 
sions, and  complained  of  the  melancholy  life  she  led  ; 
to  remedy  which,  I  introduced  her  into  the  acquaint- 
ance of  some  other  kept  mistresses,  with  whom  she 
used  to  play  at  cards,  and  frequent  plays  and  other 
diversions.  She  had  not  lived  long  in  this  intimacy 
before  I  perceived  a  visible  alteration  in  her  behaviour; 
all  her  modesty  and  innocence  vanished  by  degrees, 
till    her    mind   became    thoroughly    tainted.      She 

[63] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

affected  the  company  of  rakes,  gave  herself  all  man- 
ner of  airs,  was  never  easy  but  abroad,  or  when  she 
had  a  party  at  my  chambers.  She  was  rapacious  of 
money,  extravagant  to  excess,  loose  in  her  conversa- 
tion ;  and,  if  ever  I  demurred  to  any  of  her  demands, 
oaths,  tears,  and  fits  were  the  immediate  consequences. 
As  the  first  raptures  of  fondness  were  long  since 
over,  this  behaviour  soon  estranged  my  affections 
from  her ;  I  began  to  reflect  with  pleasure  that  she 
was  not  my  wife,  and  to  conceive  an  intention  of 
parting  with  her  ;  of  which,  having  given  her  a  hint, 
she  took  care  to  prevent  me  the  pains  of  turning  her 
out  of  doors,  and  accordingly  departed  herself,  having 
first  broken  open  my  escrutore,  and  taken  with  her  all 
she  could  find,  to  the  amount  of  about  cf*200.  In 
the  first  heat  of  my  resentment  I  resolved  to  pursue 
her  with  all  the  vengeance  of  the  law :  but,  as  she 
had  the  good  luck  to  escape  me  during  that  ferment, 
my  passion  afterwards  cooled  ;  and,  having  reflected 
that  I  had  been  the  first  aggressor,  and  had  done 
her  an  injury  for  which  I  could  make  her  no  repara- 
tion, by  robbing  her  of  the  innocence  of  her  mind  ; 
and  hearing  at  the  same  time  that  the  poor  old 
woman  her  mother  had  broke  her  heart  on  her 
daughter's  elopement  from  her,  I,  concluding  myself 
her  murderer  ("  As  you  very  well  might,*'*'  cries 
Adams,  with  a  groan),  was  pleased  that  God  Almighty 
had  taken  this  method  of  punishing  me,  and  resolved 
quietly  to  submit  to  the  loss.  Indeed,  I  couM  wish 
I  had  never  heard  more  of  the  poor  creature,  who 
became  in  the  end  an  abandoned  profligate  ;  and, 
after  being  some  years  a  common   prostitute,  at  last 

[64] 


SAPPHIRA 

ended  her  miserable  life  in  Newgate.  —  Here  the 
gentleman  fetched  a  deep  sigh,  which  IVIr.  Adams 
echoed  very  loudly  ;  and  both  continued  silent,  look- 
ino;  on  each  other  for  some  minutes.  At  last  the 
gentleman  proceeded  thus :  I  had  been  perfectly 
constant  to  this  girl  during  the  whole  time  I  kept 
her :  but  she  had  scarce  departed  before  I  discovered 
more  marks  of  her  infidelity  to  me  than  the  loss  of 
my  money.  In  short,  I  was  forced  to  make  a  third 
visit  to  my  surgeon,  out  of  whose  hands  I  did  not 
get  a  hasty  discharge. 

I  now  forswore  all  future  dealings  with  the  sex, 
complained  loudly  that  the  pleasure  did  not  compen- 
sate the  pain,  and  railed  at  the  beautiful  creatures  in 
as  gross  language  as  Juvenal  himself  formerly  reviled 
them  in.  I  looked  on  all  the  town  harlots  with  a 
detestation  not  easy  to  be  conceived,  their  persons 
appeared  to  me  as  painted  palaces,  inhabited  by 
Disease  and  Death  :  nor  could  their  beauty  make 
them  more  desirable  objects  in  my  eyes  than  gilding 
could  make  me  covet  a  pill,  or  golden  plates  a 
coffin.  But  though  I  was  no  longer  the  absolute 
slave,  I  found  some  reasons  to  own  myself  still  the 
subject,  of  love.  My  hatred  for  women  decreased 
daily ;  and  I  am  not  positive  but  time  might 
have  betrayed  me  again  to  some  common  harlot,  had 
I  not  been  secured  by  a  passion  for  the  charming 
Sapphira,  which,  having  once  entered  upon,  made  a 
violent  progress  in  my  heart.  Sapphira  was  wife  to 
a  man  of  fashion  and  gallantry,  and  one  who  seemed, 
I  own,  every  way  worthy  of  her  affections ;  which, 
however,  he  had  not  the  reputation  of  having.     She 

VOL.  II.  —  5  [  65  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

was  indeed   a   co(juette   achevee.     "  Pray,  sir,'"'  says 
Adams,  "  what  is  a  ccxjuette  ?     I  have  met  with  the 
word  in  French  authors,  but  never  could  assign  any 
idea  to  it.     I  beHeve  it  is  the  same  with  une  sotte^ 
Anghce,  a  fool."     Sir,  answered  the  gentleman,  per- 
haps you  are  not  much  mistaken  ;  but,  as  it  is  a  par- 
ticular kind  of  folly,  I  will  endeavour  to  describe  it. 
Were  all  creatures  to  be  ranked  in  the  order  of  crea- 
tion   according    to    their    usefulness,    I     know    few 
animals  that  would  not  take  place  of  a  coquette  ;  nor 
indeed  hath  this  creature  much  pretence  to  anything 
beyond  instinct;    for,  though  sometimes    we   might 
imagine  it  was  animated  by  the  passion  of  vanity, 
yet  far  the  greater  part  of  its  actions  fall  beneath 
even  that  low  motive ;  for  instance,  several  absurd 
gestures  and  tricks,  infinitely  more  foolish  than  what 
can   be  observed    in  the  most  ridiculous    birds  and 
beasts,  and  which  would  persuade  the  beholder  that 
the  silly  wretch  was  aiming  at  our  contempt.     Indeed 
its  characteristic  is  affectation,  and  this  led  and  gov- 
erned   by  whim    only :  for  as    beauty,  wisdom,  wit, 
good-nature,  politeness,  and    health   are   sometimes 
affected  by  this  creature,  so  are  ugliness,  folly,  non- 
sense, ill-nature,  ill-breeding,  and    sickness  likewise 
put  on  by  it  in  their  turn.     Its  life  is  one  constant 
lie ;  and  the  only  rule  by  which  you  can  form  any 
judgment    of  them    is,    that    they  are   never    what 
they  seem.     If  it  was  possible  for  a  coquette  to  love 
(as  it  is  not,  for  if  ever  it  attains  this  passion  the 
coquette  ceases  instantly),  it  would  wear  the  face  of 
indifference,  if  not  of  hatred,  to  the  beloved  object ; 
you  may  therefore  be  assured,  when  they  endeavour 


A    FINISHED    COQUETTE 

to  persuade  you  of  their  likinu;,  that  they  are  indif- 
ferent to  you  at  least.  And  indeed  this  was  the  case 
of  my  Sapphira,  who  no  sooner  saw  me  in  the  number 
of  her  admirers  than  slie  gave  me  what  is  commonly 
called  encouragement :  she  would  often  look  at  me, 
and,  when  she  perceived  me  meet  her  eyes,  would 
instantly  take  them  off,  discovering  at  the  same 
time  as  much  surprize  and  emotion  as  possible.  These 
arts  failed  not  of  the  success  she  intended ;  and,  as  I 
grew  more  particular  to  her  than  the  rest  of  her 
admirers,  she  advanced,  in  proportion,  more  directly 
to  me  than  to  the  others.  She  affected  the  low  voice, 
whisper,  lisp,  sigh,  start,  laugh,  and  many  other 
indications  of  passion  which  daily  deceive  thousands. 
When  I  played  at  whist  with  her,  she  would  look 
earnestly  at  me,  and  at  the  same  time  lose  deal  or 
revoke ;  then  burst  into  a  ridiculous  laugh  and  cry, 
"  La !  I  can't  imagine  what  I  was  thinking  of.""  To 
detain  you  no  longer,  after  I  had  gone  through  a 
sufficient  course  of  gallantry,  as  I  thought,  and  was 
thoroughly  convinced  I  had  raised  a  violent  passion 
in  my  mistress,  I  sought  an  opportunity  of  coming  to 
an  eclaircissement  with  her.  She  avoided  this  as 
much  as  possible  ;  however,  great  assiduity  at  length 
presented  me  one.  I  will  not  describe  all  the  par- 
ticulars of  this  interview  ;  let  it  suffice  that,  when 
she  could  no  longer  pretend  not  to  see  my  drift,  she 
first  affected  a  violent  surprize,  and  innnediately  after 
as  violent  a  passion  :  she  wondered  what  I  had  seen 
in  her  conduct  which  could  induce  me  to  affront  her 
in  this  manner ;  and,  breaking  from  me  the  fii'st 
moment  she  could,  told  me  I  had  no  other  wav  to 

[67] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

escape  the  consequence  of  her  resentment  than  by 
never  seeing,  or  at  least  speaking  to  her  more.  I  was 
not  contented  with  this  answer ;  I  still  pursued  her, 
but  to  no  purpose  ;  and  was  at  length  convinced 
that  her  husband  had  the  sole  possession  of  her  per- 
son, and  that  neither  he  nor  any  other  had  made  any 
impression  on  her  heart.  I  w^as  taken  off  from  fol- 
lowing this  ignis /atuns  by  some  advances  which  were 
made  me  by  the  wife  of  a  citizen,  who,  though  neither 
very  young  nor  handsome,  was  yet  too  agreeable  to 
be  rejected  by  my  amorous  constitution.  I  accord- 
ingly soon  satisfied  her  that  she  had  not  cast  away 
her  hints  on  a  barren  or  cold  soil  :  on  the  contrary, 
they  instantly  produced  her  an  eager  and  desiring 
lover.  Nor  did  she  give  me  any  reason  to  complain ; 
she  met  the  warmth  she  had  raised  with  e(jual 
ardour.  I  had  no  longer  a  coquette  to  deal  with,  but 
one  who  was  wiser  than  to  prostitute  the  noble  pas- 
sion of  love  to  the  ridiculous  lust  of  vanity.  We 
presently  understood  one  another;  and, as  the  pleasures 
we  sought  lay  in  a  mutual  gratification,  we  soon  found 
and  enjoyed  them.  I  thought  myself  at  first  greatly 
happy  in  the  possession  of  this  new  mistress,  whose 
fondness  would  have  quickly  surfeited  a  more  sickly 
appetite ;  but  it  had  a  different  effect  on  mine :  she 
carried  my  passion  higher  by  it  than  youth  or  beauty 
had  been  able.  But  my  happiness  could  not  long 
continue  uninterrupted.  The  apprehensions  we  lay 
under  from  the  jealousy  of  her  husband  gave  us  great 
uneasiness.  "  Poor  wretch !  I  pity  him,''  cried 
Adams.  He  did  indeed  deserve  it,  said  the  gentle- 
man ;  for  he  loved  his  wife  with  great  tenderness  ; 

[68] 


CLUB    LIFE 

and,  I  assure  you,  it  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  me 
that  I  was  not  tlie  man  who  first  seduced  her  affec- 
tions from  him.  These  apprehensions  appeared  also 
too  well  groimded,  for  in  the  end  he  discovered  us, 
and  procured  witnesses  of  our  caresses.  He  then 
prosecuted  me  at  law,  and  recovered  i^3000  damages, 
which  much  distressed  my  fortune  to  pay  ;  and,  what 
was  worse,  his  wife,  being  divorced,  came  upon  my 
hands.  I  led  a  very  uneasy  life  with  her  ;  for,  besides 
that  my  passion  was  now  much  abated,  her  excessive 
i  ealousy  was  very  troublesome.  At  length  death  rid  me 
of  an  inconvenience  which  the  consideration  of  my  hav- 
ina;  been  the  author  of  her  misfortunes  would  never 
suffer  me  to  take  any  other  method  of  discarding. 

I  now  bad  adieu  to  love,  and  resolved  to  pursue 
other  less  dangerous  and  expensive  pleasures.  I  fell 
into  the  acquaintance  of  a  set  of  jolly  companions, 
who  slept  all  day  and  drank  all  night ;  fellows  who 
might  rather  be  said  to  consume  time  than  to  live. 
Their  best  conversation  was  nothing  but  noise : 
singing,  hollowing,  wrangling,  drinking,  toasting, 
sp — wing,  smoaking  were  the  chief  ingredients  of 
our  entertainment.  And  yet,  bad  as  these  were,  they 
were  more  tolerable  than  our  graver  scenes,  which 
were  either  excessive  tedious  naiTatives  of  dull  com- 
mon matters  of  fact,  or  hot  disputes  about  trifling 
matters,  which  commonly  ended  in  a  wager.  This 
way  of  life  the  first  serious  reflection  put  a  period  to  ; 
and  I  became  member  of  a  club  frequented  by  young 
men  of  great  abilities.  The  bottle  was  now  only 
called  in  to  the  assistance  of  our  conversation,  which 
rolled  on  the  deepest  points  of  philosophy.     These 

[69] 


THE    PLAYHOUSE 

rule,  made  me  begin  to  suspect  its  infallibility ;  but 
when  I  connnunicated  my  thoughts  to  one  of  the 
club,  he  said,  "  There  was  nothing  absolutely  good  or 
evil  in  itself;  that  actions  were  denominated  good 
or  bad  by  the  circumstances  of  the   agent.     That 
possibly  the  man  who  ran  away  w'ith  his  neighbours 
wife  might  be  one   of  very  good  inclinations,   but 
over-prevailed  on  by  the  violence  of  an  unruly  pas- 
sion ;  and,    in  other   particulars,   might  be   a    very 
worthy  member  of  society ;  that  if  the  beauty  of  any 
woman  created  in  him  an  uneasiness,  he  had  a  right 
from  nature  to  relieve  himself;  "  —  with  many  other 
things,  which  I  then  detested  so  much,  that  I  took 
leave  of  the  society  that   very  evening   and   never 
returned  to  it  again.     Being  now  reduced  to  a  state 
of  solitude  which  I  did  not  like,  I  became  a  great  fre- 
quenter of  the  playhouses,  which  indeed  was  always 
my  favourite  diversion  ;  and  most    evenings  passed 
away  two  or  three  hours  behind  the  scenes,  where  I 
met  with  several  poets,  with  whom  I  made  engage- 
ments   at  the   taverns.     Some  of  the  players  were 
likewise  of  our  parties.     At  these  meetings  we  were 
generally  entertained  by  the  poets  with  reading  their 
performances,  and  by  the  players  with  repeating  their 
parts  :  upon  which  occasions,  I  observed  the  gentle- 
man who  furnished  our  entertainment  was  commonly 
the  best  pleased  of  the  company  ;  who,  though  they 
were  pretty  civil  to  him  to  his  face,  seldom  failed  to 
take  the  first  opportunity  of  his  absence  to  ridicule 
him.     Now   I   made  some   remarks  which  probably 
are  too  obvious  to  be  worth  relating.     "  Sir,"  says 
Adams,  "  your  remarks  if  you  please."     First  then, 

[71] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

gentlemen  were  engaged  in  a  search  after  truth,  in 
the  pursuit  of  which  they  threw  aside  all  the  prejudices 
of  education,  and  governed  themselves  only  by  the 
infallible  guide  of  human  reason.  This  great  guide, 
after  having  shown  them  the  falsehood  of  that  very 
ancient  but  simple  tenet,  that  there  is  such  a  being 
as  a  Deity  in  the  universe,  helped  them  to  establish 
in  his  stead  a  certain  rule  of  right,  by  adhering  to 
which  they  all  arrived  at  the  utmost  purity  of  morals. 
Reflection  made  me  as  much  delighted  with  this 
society  as  it  had  taught  me  to  despise  and  detest  the 
former.  I  began  now  to  esteem  myself  a  being  of  a 
higher  order  than  I  had  ever  before  conceived ;  and 
was  the  more  charmed  with  this  rule  of  right,  as  I 
really  found  in  my  own  nature  nothing  repugnant 
to  it.  I  held  in  utter  contempt  all  persons  who 
wanted  any  other  inducement  to  virtue  besides  her 
intrinsic  beauty  and  excellence  ;  and  had  so  high  an 
opinion  of  my  present  companions,  with  regard  to 
their  morality,  that  I  would  have  trusted  them  with 
whatever  was  nearest  and  dearest  to  me.  Whilst  I 
was  engaged  in  this  delightful  dream,  two  or  three 
accidents  happened  successively,  which  at  first  much 
surprized  me  ;  —  for  one  of  our  greatest  philosophers, 
or  rule-of-right  men,  withdrew  himself  from  us,  tak- 
ing with  him  the  wife  of  one  of  his  most  intimate 
friends.  Secondly,  another  of  the  same  society  left 
the  club  without  remembering  to  take  leave  of  his 
bail.  A  third,  having  borrowed  a  sum  of  money  of 
me,  for  which  I  received  no  security,  when  I  asked 
him  to  repay  it,  absolutely  denied  the  loan.  These 
several   practices,   so   inconsistent  with    our  golden 

[70] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

says  he,  I  concluded  that  the  general  observation, 
that  wits  are  most  inclined  to  vanity,  is  not  true. 
Men  are  equally  vain  of  riches,  strength,  beauty, 
honours,  Sec.  But  these  appear  of  themselves  to  the 
eyes  of  the  beholders,  whereas  the  poor  wit  is  obliged 
to  produce  his  performance  to  show  you  his  perfec- 
tion ;  and  on  his  readiness  to  do  this  that  vulgar 
opinion  I  have  before  mentioned  is  grounded ;  but 
doth  not  the  person  who  expends  vast  sums  in  the 
furniture  of  his  house  or  the  ornaments  of  his  per- 
son, who  consumes  much  time  and  employs  great 
pains  in  dressing  himself,  or  who  thinks  himself  paid 
for  self-denial,  labour,  or  even  villany,  by  a  title 
or  a  ribbon,  sacrifice  as  much  to  vanity  as  the  poor 
wit  who  is  desirous  to  read  you  his  poem  or  his 
play?  My  second  remark  was,  that  vanity  is  the 
worst  of  passions,  and  more  apt  to  contaminate  the 
mind  than  any  other  :  for,  as  selfishness  is  much  more 
general  than  we  please  to  allow  it,  so  it  is  natural  to 
hate  and  envy  those  who  stand  between  us  and  the 
good  we  desire.  Now,  in  lust  and  ambition  these  are 
few ;  and  even  in  avarice  we  find  many  who  are  no 
obstacles  to  our  pursuits  ;  but  the  vain  man  seeks 
pre-eminence ;  and  everything  which  is  excellent  or 
praiseworthy  in  another  renders  him  the  mark  of  his 
antipathy.  Adams  now  began  to  fumble  in  his 
pockets,  and  soon  cried  out,  "  O  la  !  I  have  it  not 
about  me.""  Upon  this,  the  gentleman  asking  him 
what  he  was  searching  for,  he  said  he  searched  after 
a  sermon,  which  he  thought  his  masterpiece,  against 
vanity.  "Fie  upon  it,  fie  upon  it ! ""  cries  he,  "  why 
do  I  ever  leave  that  sermon  out  of  my  pocket ''     I 

[72] 


PLAY-WRITING 

wish  it  was  within  five  miles ;  I  would  willingly  fetch 
it,  to  read  it  you."  The  gentleman  answered  that 
there  was  no  need,  for  he  was  cured  of  the  passion. 
"  And  for  that  very  reason,"  quoth  Adams,  "  I  would 
read  it,  for  I  am  conh'dent  you  would  admire  it : 
indeed,  I  have  never  been  a  greater  enemy  to  any 
passion  than  that  silly  one  of  vanity."  The  gentle- 
man smiled,  and  proceeded  —  From  this  society  I 
easily  passed  to  that  of  the  gamesters,  where  nothing 
remarkable  happened  but  the  finishing  my  for- 
tune, which  those  gentlemen  soon  helped  me  to  the 
end  of.  This  opened  scenes  of  life  hitherto  un- 
known ;  poverty  and  distress,  with  their  horrid  train 
of  duns,  attorneys,  bailiffs,  haunted  me  day  and 
night.  My  clothes  grew  shabby,  my  credit  bad,  my 
friends  and  acquaintance  of  all  kinds  cold.  In  this 
situation  the  strangest  thought  imaginable  came 
into  my  head  ;  and  what  was  this  but  to  write  a 
play  ?  for  I  had  sufficient  leisure :  fear  of  bailiffs 
confined  me  every  day  to  my  room  :  and,  having 
always  had  a  little  inclination  and  something  of  a 
genius  that  way,  I  set  myself  to  work,  and  within  a 
few  months  produced  a  piece  of  five  acts,  which  was 
accepted  of  at  the  theatre.  I  remembered  to  have 
formerly  taken  tickets  of  other  poets  for  their  bene- 
fits, long  before  the  appearance  of  their  performances  ; 
and,  resolving  to  follow  a  precedent  which  was  so 
well  suited  to  my  present  circumstances,  I  immedi- 
ately provided  myself  with  a  large  number  of  little 
papers.  Happy  indeed  would  be  the  state  of 
poetry,  would  these  tickets  pass  current  at  the  bake- 
house, the  ale-house,  and  the  chandler's  shop :  but 

[73] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

alas  !  far  otherwise ;  no  taylor  will  take  them  in 
payment  for  buckram,  canvas,  stay-tape ;  nor  no 
bailiff  for  civility  money.  They  are,  indeed,  no 
more  than  a  passport  to  beg  with  ;  a  certificate 
that  the  owner  wants  five  shillings,  which  induces 
well-disposed  Christians  to  charity.  I  now  ex- 
perienced what  is  worse  than  poverty,  or  rather 
what  is  the  worst  consequence  of  poverty  —  I  mean 
attendance  and  dependance  on  the  great.  Many  a 
morning  have  I  waited  hours  in  the  cold  parlours  of 
men  of  quality  ;  where,  after  seeing  the  lowest  rascals 
in  lace  and  embroidery,  the  pimps  and  buffoons  in 
fashion,  admitted,  I  have  been  sometimes  told,  on 
sending  in  my  name,  that  my  lord  could  not  possibly 
see  me  this  morning ;  a  sufficient  assurance  that  I 
should  never  more  get  entrance  into  that  house. 
Sometimes  I  have  been  at  last  admitted ;  and  the 
great  man  hath  thought  proper  to  excuse  himself, 
by  telling  me  he  was  tied  up.  "Tied  up,"  says 
Adams,  "  pray  what  \s  that  ? ""  Sir,  says  the  gentle- 
man, the  profit  which  booksellers  allowed  authors 
for  the  best  works  was  so  very  small,  that  certain 
men  of  birth  and  fortune  some  years  ago,  who  were 
the  patrons  of  wit  and  learning,  thought  fit  to  en- 
courage them  farthei-  by  entering  into  voluntary  sub- 
scriptions for  their  encouragement.  Thus  Prior, 
Rowe,  Pope,  and  some  other  men  of  genius,  received 
large  sums  for  their  labours  from  the  public.  This 
seemed  so  easy  a  method  of  getting  money,  that 
many  of  the  lowest  scribblers  of  the  times  ventured 
to  publish  their  works  in  the  same  way  ;  and  many 
had  the  assurance  to  take  in  subscriptions  for  what 

[74] 


SUBSCRIPTIONS 

was  not  writ,  nor  ever  intended.  Subsci-iptions  in 
this  manner  growing  infinite,  and  a  kind  of  tax  on 
the  publick,  some  persons,  finding  it  not  so  easy  a 
task  to  discern  good  from  bad  authors,  or  to  know 
what  genius  was  worthy  encouragement  and  what 
was  not,  to  prevent  the  expense  of  subscribing  to  so 
many,  invented  a  method  to  excuse  themselves  from 
all  subscriptions  whatever ;  and  this  was  to  receive  a 
small  sum  of  money  in  consideration  of  giving  a  large 
one  if  ever  they  subscribed  ;  which  many  have  done, 
and  many  more  have  pretended  to  have  done,  in 
order  to  silence  all  solicitation.  The  same  method 
was  likewise  taken  with  playhouse  tickets,  which 
were  no  less  a  public  gi'ievance ;  and  this  is  what 
they  call  being  tied  up  from  subscribing.  "  I  can't 
say  but  the  term  is  apt  enough,  and  somewhat 
typical,"  said  Adams  ;  "  for  a  man  of  large  fortune, 
who  ties  himself  up,  as  you  call  it,  from  the  en- 
couragement of  men  of  merit,  ought  to  be  tied  up  in 
reality."  Well,  sir,  says  the  gentleman,  to  return  to 
my  story.  Sometimes  I  have  received  a  guinea  from 
a  man  of  quality,  given  with  as  ill  a  grace  as  alms 
are  generally  to  the  meanest  beggar  ;  and  purchased 
too  with  as  much  time  spent  in  attendance  as,  if  it 
had  been  spent  in  honest  industry,  might  have 
brought  me  more  profit  with  infinitely  more  satisfac- 
tion. After  about  two  months  spent  in  this  dis- 
agreeable way,  with  the  utmost  modification,  when 
I  was  pluming  my  hopes  on  the  prospect  of  a  plenti- 
ful harvest  from  my  play,  upon  applying  to  the 
prompter  to  know  when  it  came  into  rehearsal,  he 
informed  me  he  had  received  orders  from  the  niana- 

[  75  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

gers  to  return  me  the  play  again,  for  that  they  could 
not  possibly  act  it  that  season ;  but,  if  I  would  take 
it  and  revise  it  against  the  next,  they  would  be  glad 
to  see  it  again.  I  snatched  it  from  him  with  great 
indignation,  and  retired  to  my  room,  where  I  threw 
myself  on  the  bed  in  a  fit  of  despair.  "  You  should 
rather  have  thrown  yourself  on  your  knees,""  says 
Adams,  "  for  despair  is  sinful.'"'  As  soon,  continued 
the  gentleman,  as  I  had  indulged  the  first  tumult  of 
my  passion,  I  began  to  consider  coolly  what  course  I 
should  take,  in  a  situation  without  friends,  money, 
credit,  or  reputation  of  any  kind.  After  revolving 
many  things  in  my  mind,  I  could  see  no  other  possi- 
bility of  furnishing  myself  with  the  miserable  neces- 
saries of  life  than  to  retire  to  a  garret  near  the 
Temple,  and  commence  hackney-writer  to  the 
lawyers,  for  which  I  was  well  qualified,  being  an 
excellent  penman.  This  purpose  I  resolved  on,  and 
immediately  put  it  in  execution.  I  had  an  acquaint- 
ance with  an  attorney  who  had  formerly  transacted 
affairs  for  me,  and  to  him  I  applied ;  but,  instead  of 
furnishing  me  with  any  business,  he  laughed  at  my 
undertaking,  and  told  me,  "  He  was  afraid  I  should 
turn  his  deeds  into  ploys,  and  he  should  expect  to  see 
them  on  the  stage."'"'  Not  to  tire  you  with  instances 
of  this  kind  from  others,  I  found  that  Plato  him- 
self did  not  hold  poets  in  greater  abhorrence  than 
these  men  of  business  do.  Whenever  I  durst  venture 
to  a  coffee-house,  which  was  on  Sundays  only,  a 
whisper  ran  round  the  room,  which  was  constantly 
attended  with  a  sneer  —  That  \s  poet  Wilson  ;  for  I 
know  not  whether  you  have  observed  it,  but  there  is 

[76] 


TRANSLATION 

a  malignity  in  the  nature  of  man,  which,  when  not 
weeded  out,  or  at  least  covered  by  a  good  education 
and  politeness,  delights  in  making  another  uneasy 
or  dissatisfied  with  himself.  This  abundantly  appears 
in  all  assemblies,  except  those  which  are  filled  by 
people  of  fashion,  and  especially  among  the  younger 
people  of  both  sexes  whose  birth  and  fortunes  place 
them  just  without  the  polite  circles;  I  mean  the 
lower  class  of  the  gentry,  and  the  higher  of  the 
mercantile  world,  who  are,  in  reality,  the  worst-bred 
part  of  mankind.  Well,  sir,  whilst  I  continued  in 
this  miserable  state,  with  scarce  sufficient  business  to 
keep  me  from  starving,  the  reputation  of  a  poet 
being  my  bane,  I  accidentally  became  acquainted 
with  a  bookseller,  who  told  me,  "  It  was  a  pity  a  man 
of  my  learning  and  genius  should  be  obliged  to  such 
a  method  of  getting  his  livelihood ;  that  he  had  a 
compassion  for  me,  and,  if  I  would  engage  with  him, 
he  would  undertake  to  provide  handsomely  for  me," 
A  man  in  my  circumstances,  as  he  very  well  knew, 
had  no  choice.  I  accordingly  accepted  his  proposal 
with  his  conditions,  which  were  none  of  the  most 
favourable,  and  fell  to  translating  with  all  my  might. 
I  had  no  longer  reason  to  lament  the  want  of  busi- 
ness ;  for  he  furnished  me  with  so  much,  that  in  half  a 
year  I  almost  writ  myself  blind.  I  likewise  contracted 
a  distemper  by  my  sedentary  life,  in  which  no  part  of 
my  body  was  exercised  but  my  right  arm,  which 
rendered  me  incapable  of  writing  for  a  long  time. 
This  unluckily  happening  to  delay  the  publication 
of  a  work,  and  my  last  performance  not  having  sold 
well,  the  bookseller  declined  any  further  engagement, 

[77] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

and  aspersed  nic  to  his  brethren  as  a  careless  idle 
fellow.  I  had,  however,  by  having  half  worked  and 
half  starved  myself  to  death  during  the  time  I  was 
in  his  service,  saved  a  few  guineas,  with  which  I 
bought  a  lottery-ticket,  resolving  to  throw  myself 
into  Fortune''s  lap,  and  try  if  she  would  make  me 
amends  for  the  injuries  she  had  done  me  at  the 
gaming-table.  Tiiis  purchase,  being  made,  left  me 
almost  pennyless ;  when,  as  if  I  had  not  been  suffi- 
ciently miserable,  a  bailiff  in  woman\s  clothes  got 
admittance  to  my  chamber,  whither  he  was  directed 
by  the  bookseller.  He  arrested  me  at  my  taylor''s 
suit  for  thirty-five  pounds;  a  sum  for  which  I  could 
not  procure  bail ;  and  was  therefore  conveyed  to  his 
house,  where  I  was  locked  up  in  an  upper  chamber. 
I  had  now  neither  health  (for  I  was  scarce  recovered 
fi'om  my  indisposition),  liberty,  money,  or  friends ; 
and  had  abandoned  all  hopes,  and  even  the  desire, 
of  life.  "  But  this  could  not  last  long,"  said  Adams  ; 
"  for  doubtless  the  taylor  released  you  the  moment 
he  was  truly  acquainted  with  your  affairs,  and  knew 
that  your  circumstances  would  not  permit  you  to  pay 
him."  "Oh,  sir,"  answered  the  gentleman,  "he 
knew  that  before  he  arrested  me;  nay,  he  knew 
that  nothing  but  incapacity  could  prevent  me  pay- 
ing my  debts ;  for  I  had  been  his  customer  many 
years,  had  spent  vast  sums  of  money  with  him,  and 
had  always  paid  most  punctually  in  my  prosperous 
days;  but  when  I  reminded  him  of  this,  with  assurances 
that,  if  he  would  not  molest  my  endeavours,  I  would 
pay  him  all  the  money  I  could  by  my  utmost  labour 
and  industry  procure,  reserving  only  what  was  suffi- 

[78] 


AN    UNFORTUNATE    SALE 

cient  to  preserve  me  alive,  he  answered,  his  patience 
was  worn  out  ;  that  I  had  put  him  off'  from  time  to 
time  ;  that  he  wanted  the  money ;  that  he  had  })ut 
it  into  a  lawyer's  hands  ;  and  if  I  did  not  pay  him 
immediately,  or  find  security,  I  must  die  in  gaol  and 
expect  no  mercy."  "He  may  expect  mercy,"  cries 
Adams,  starting  from  his  chair,  "  where  he  will  find 
none  !  How  can  such  a  wretch  repeat  the  Lord's 
Prayer ;  where  the  word,  which  is  translated,  I  know 
not  for  what  reason,  trespasses,  is  in  the  original, 
debts  ?  And  as  surely  as  we  do  not  forgive  others 
their  debts,  when  they  are  unable  to  [)ay  them,  so 
surely  shall  we  ourselves  be  unforgiven  when  we  are 
in  no  condition  of  paying."  He  ceased,  and  the 
gentleman  proceeded.  While  I  was  in  this  deplor- 
able situation,  a  former  ac(juaintance,  to  whom  I 
had  communicated  my  lottery-ticket,  found  me  out, 
and,  making  me  a  visit,  with  great  delight  in  his 
countenance,  shook  me  heartily  by  the  hand,  and 
wished  me  joy  of  my  good  fortune  :  for,  says  he,  your 
ticket  is  come  up  a  prize  of  ^^JiOOO.  Adams  snapped 
his  fingers  at  these  words  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy  ;  which, 
however,  did  not  continue  long  ;  for  the  gentleman 
thus  proceeded  :  —  Alas  !  sir,  this  was  only  a  trick 
of  Fortune  to  sink  me  the  deeper  ;  for  I  had  disposed 
of  this  lottery-ticket  two  days  before  to  a  relation, 
who  refused  lending  me  a  shilling  without  it,  in  order 
to  procure  myself  bread.  As  soon  as  my  friend  was 
acquainted  with  my  unfortunate  sale  he  began  to 
revile  me  and  remind  me  of  all  the  ill-conduct  and 
miscarriages  of  my  life.  He  said  I  was  one  whom 
Fortune  could  not  save  if  she  would ;  that  I  was  now 

[  T^J  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

ruined  without  any  hopes  of  retrieval,  nor  must 
expect  any  pity  from  my  friends  ;  that  it  would  be 
extreme  weakness  to  compassionate  the  misfortunes 
of  a  man  who  ran  headlong  to  his  own  destruction. 
He  then  painted  to  me,  in  as  lively  colours  as  he 
was  able,  the  happiness  I  should  have  now  enjoyed, 
had  I  not  foolishly  disposed  of  my  ticket.  I  urged 
the  plea  of  necessity;  but  he  made  no  answer  to 
that,  and  began  again  to  revile  me,  till  I  could  bear 
it  no  longer,  and  desired  him  to  finish  his  visit.  I 
soon  exclianged  the  bailiff's  house  for  a  prison  ;  where, 
as  I  had  not  money  sufficient  to  procure  me  a  separate 
apartment,  I  was  crouded  in  with  a  great  number  of 
miserable  wretches,  in  common  with  whom  I  was 
destitute  of  every  convenience  of  life,  even  that  which 
all  the  brutes  enjoy,  wholesome  air.  In  these  dread- 
ful circumstances  I  applied  by  letter  to  several  of  my 
old  acquaintance,  and  such  to  whom  I  had  formerly 
lent  money  without  any  great  prospect  of  its  being 
returned,  for  their  assistance ;  but  in  vain.  An  ex- 
cuse, instead  of  a  denial,  was  the  gentlest  answer  I 
received.  Whilst  I  languished  in  a  condition  too 
horrible  to  be  described,  and  which,  in  a  land  of 
humanity,  and,  what  is  much  more,  Christianity, 
seems  a  strange  punishment  for  a  little  inadvertency 
and  indiscretion ;  whilst  I  was  in  this  condition,  a 
fellow  came  into  the  prison,  and,  enquiring  me  out, 
delivered  me  the  following  letter :  — 

"  Sir,  —  My  father,  to  whom  you  sold  your  ticket  in 
tlie  last  lottery,  died  the  same  day  in  which  it  came  up 
a  prize,  as  you  have  possibly  heard,  and  left  me  sole 
heiress  of  all  his  fortune.      I  am  so  mucli  touched  with 

[80] 


A    KINDLY    ACT 

your  present  circumstances,  and  the  uneasiness  you  must 
feel  at  having  been  driven  to  dispose  of  what  might 
have  made  you  happy,  that  I  must  desire  your  accept- 
ance of  the  enclosed,  and  am  your  humble  servant, 

"  Harriet  Hearty." 

And  what  do  you  think  was  enclosed?  "I  don"'t 
know,"'  cried  Adams ;  "  not  less  than  a  guinea,  I 
hope."  Si r,  i t  was  a  ban k-note  for  £'200.  —  "  ^'SOO  ?  " 
says  Adams,  in  a  rapture.  No  less,  I  assure  you, 
answered  the  gentleman  ;  a  sum  I  was  not  half  so 
delighted  with  as  with  the  dear  name  of  the  generous 
girl  that  sent  it  me ;  and  who  was  not  only  the  best 
but  the  handsomest  creature  in  the  universe,  and  for 
whom  I  had  long  had  a  passion  which  I  never  durst 
disclose  to  her.  I  kissed  her  name  a  thousand  times, 
my  eyes  overflowing  with  tenderness  and  gratitude  ; 
I  repeated  —  13ut  not  to  detain  you  with  these  rap- 
tures, I  immediately  acquired  my  liberty;  and,  having 
paid  all  my  debts,  departed,  with  upwards  of  fifty 
pounds  in  my  pocket,  to  thank  my  kind  deliverer. 
She  happened  to  be  then  )ut  of  town,  a  circumstance 
which,  upon  reflection,  pleased  me  ;  for  by  that  means 
I  had  an  opportunity  to  appear  before  her  in  a  more 
decent  dress.  At  her  return  to  town,  within  a  day 
or  two,  I  threw  myself  at  her  feet  with  the  most 
ardent  acknowledgments,  which  she  rejected  with  an 
unfeigned  greatness  of  mind,  and  told  me  I  could 
not  oblige  her  more  than  by  never  mentioning,  or 
if  possible  thinking  on,  a  circumstance  which  must 
bring  to  my  mind  an  accident  that  might  be  grievous 
to  me  to  think  on.  She  proceeded  thus  :  "  What  I 
have  done  is  in  my  own  eyes  a  trifle,  and  perhaps  in- 

VOL.  II.— 6  [  81  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

finitely  less  than  would  have  become  me  to  do.  And 
if  you  think  of  engaging  in  any  business  where  a 
larger  sum  may  be  serviceable  to  you,  I  shall  not  be 
over-rigid  either  as  to  the  security  or  interest."  I 
endeavoured  to  express  all  the  gratitude  in  my  power 
to  this  profusion  of  goodness,  though  perhaps  it  was 
my  enemy,  and  began  to  afflict  my  mind  with  more 
agonies  than  all  the  miseries  I  had  underwent;  it 
affected  me  with  severer  reflections  than  poverty, 
distress,  and  prisons  united  had  been  able  to  make 
me  feel ;  for,  sir,  these  acts  and  professions  of  kind- 
ness, which  were  sufficient  to  have  raised  in  a  good 
heart  the  most  violent  passion  of  friendship  to  one 
of  the  same,  or  to  age  and  ugliness  in  a  different  sex, 
came  to  me  from  a  woman,  a  young  and  beautiful 
woman  ;  one  whose  perfections  I  had  long  known, 
and  for  whom  I  had  long  conceived  a  violent  passion, 
though  with  a  despair  which  made  me  endeavour 
lather  to  curb  and  conceal,  than  to  nourish  or  ac« 
quaint  her  with  it.  In  short,  they  came  upon  me 
united  with  beauty,  softness,  and  tenderness  :  such 
bewitching  smiles  !  — O  Mr,  Adams,  in  that  moment 
I  lost  myself,  and,  forgetting  our  different  situations, 
nor  considering  what  return  I  was  making  to  her 
goodness  by  desiring  her,  who  had  given  me  so  much, 
to  bestow  her  all,  I  laid  gently  hold  on  her  hand, 
and,  conveying  it  to  my  lips,  I  prest  it  with  incon- 
ceivable ardour ;  then,  lifting  up  my  swimming  eyes, 
I  saw  her  face  and  neck  overspread  with  one  blush  ; 
she  offered  to  withdraw  her  hand,  yet  not  so  as  to 
deliver  it  from  mine,  though  I  held  it  with  the 
gentlest  force.     We  both  stood  trembling  ;  her  eyes 

[82] 


A    DECLxVRATION    OF    LOVE 

cast  on  the  ground,  and  mine  stedfastly  fixed  on  her. 
Good  G — d,  what  was  then  the  condition  of  my  soul ! 
burning  with  love,  desire,  admiration,  gratitude,  and 
every  tender  passion,  all  bent  on  one  charming  object. 
Passion  at  last  got  the  better  of  both  reason  and  re- 
spect, and,  softly  letting  go  her  hand,  I  offered  madly 
to  clasp  her  in  my  arms  ;  when,  a  little  recovering  her- 
self, she  started  from  me,  asking  me,  with  some  show 
of  anger,  "  If  she  had  any  reason  to  expect  this  treat- 
ment from  me."     I  then  fell  prostrate  before  her,  and 
told  her,  if  I  had  offended,  my  life  was  absolutely  in 
her  power,  which  I  would  in  any  manner  lose  for  her 
sake.     Nay,  madam,  said  I,  you  shall  not  be  so  ready 
to  punish  me  as  I  to  suffer.    I  own  my  guilt.    I  detest 
the  reflection  that  I  would  have  sacrificed  your  happi- 
ness to  mine.     Believe  me,  I  sincerely  repent  my  in- 
gratitude ;  yet,  believe  me  too,  it  was  my  passion,  my 
\nibounded  passion  for  you,  which  hurried  me  so  far  : 
I  have  loved  you  long  and  tenderly,  and  the  goodness 
you  have  shown  me  hath  innocently  weighed  down  a 
wretch  undone  before.    Acquit  me  of  all  mean,  merce- 
nary views  ;  and,  before  I  take  my  leave  of  you  for  ever, 
which  I  am  resolved  instantly  to  do,  believe  me  that 
Fortune  could  have  raised  me  to  no  height  to  which 
I  could  not  have  gladly  lifted  you.     O,  curst  be  For- 
tune !  —  "Do  not,"  says  she,  interrupting  me  with 
the  sweetest  voice,  "  do  not  curse  Fortune,  since  she 
hath  made  me  happy;  and,  if  she  hath  put  your 
happiness  in  my  power,  I  have  told  you  you  shall 
ask  nothing  in  reason  which  I  will  refuse."     Madam, 
said  I,  you  mistake  me  if  you  imagine,  as  you  seem, 
my  happiness  is  in  the  power  of  Fortune  now.     You 

[83] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

have  obliged  me  too  iniuh  already  ;  if  I  have  any 
wish,  it  is  for  some  blest  accident,  by  whicli  I  may 
contribute  with  my  life  to  the  least  auu;nientation  of 
your  felicity.  As  for  myself,  the  only  happiness  I 
can  ever  have  will  be  hearing  of  yours ;  and  if 
Fortune  will  make  that  complete,  I  will  forgive  her 
all  her  wrongs  to  me.  "  You  may,  indeed,*"  answered 
she,  smiling,  "  for  your  own  happiness  must  be 
included  in  mine.  I  have  long  known  your  worth  ; 
nay,  I  must  confess,"'"'  said  she,  blushing,  "  I  have  long 
discovered  that  passion  for  me  you  profess,  notwith- 
standing those  endeavours,  which  I  am  convinced 
were  unaffected,  to  conceal  it ;  and  if  all  I  can  give 
with  reason  will  not  suffice,  take  reason  away  ;  and 
now  I  believe  you  cannot  ask  me  what  I  will 
deny." She  uttered  these  words  with  a  sweet- 
ness not  to  be  imagined.  I  immediately  started  ; 
my  blood,  which  lay  freezing  at  my  heart,  rushed 
tumultuously  through  every  vein.  I  stood  for  a 
moment  silent ;  then,  flying  to  her,  I  caught  her  in 
my  arms,  no  longer  resisting,  and  softly  told  her  she 
must  give  me  then  herself.  O,  sir  !  can  I  describe 
her  look  .^  She  remained  silent,  and  almost  motion- 
less, several  minutes.  At  last,  recovering  herself  a 
little,  she  insisted  on  my  leaving  her,  and  in  such  a 
manner  that  I  instantly  obeyed  :  you  may  imagine, 
however,  I  soon  saw  her  again.  —  But  I  ask  pardon  : 
I  fear  I  have  detained  you  too  long  in  relating  the 
particulars  of  the  former  interview.  "  So  far  other- 
wise," said  Adams,  licking  his  lips,  "  that  I  could 
willingly  hear  it  over  again."  Well,  sir,  continued 
the  gentleman,  to  be  as  concise  as  possible,  within  a 

[84] 


MARRIAGE 

week  she   consented  to  make    me   the   happiest  of 
mankind.     We  were  married  shortly  after  ;  and  when 
I  came  to  examine  the  circumstances  of  my  wife''s 
fortune  (which,  I  do  assure  you,  I  was  not  presently 
at  leisure  enough  to  do),  I   found  it  amounted  to 
about  six  thousand  pounds,  most  part  of  which  lay 
in  effects ;  for  her  father  had  been  a  wine-merchant, 
and  she  seemed  willing,  if  I  liked  it,  that  I  should 
carry  on  the  same  trade.     I  readily,  and  too  incon- 
siderately, undertook  it ;  for,  not  having  been  bred 
up  to  the  secrets  of  the  business,  and  endeavouring  to 
deal  with  the  utmost  honesty  and  uprightness,  I  soon 
found  our  fortune  in  a  declining  way,  and  my  trade 
decreasing  by  little  and  little ;  for  mv  wines,  which 
I  never  adulterated  after  their  importation,  and  were 
sold  as    neat  as    they   came    ovep,   were   universally 
decried  by  the  vintners,  to  whom  I  could  not  allow 
them  quite  as  cheap  as  those  who  gained  double  the 
profit  by  a  less  price.     I  soon  began  to  despair  of 
improving  our   fortune  by  these  means ;  nor  was  I 
at  all  easy  at  the  visits  and  familiarity  of  many  who 
had  been  my  actjuaintance  in  my  prosperity,  but  had 
denied  and  shunned  me  in   my  adversity,  and  now 
very  forwardly  renewed  their  acqviaintance  with  me. 
In  short,  I  had  sufficiently  seen  that  the  pleasures  of 
the  world  are   chiefly  folly,   and  the  business  of  it 
mostly  knavery,  and  both  nothing  better  than  vanity  ; 
the  men  of  pleasure  tearing  one  another  to  pieces 
from  the  emulation  of  spending  money,  and  the  men 
of  business  from  envy  in  getting  it.     My  happiness 
consisted  entirely  in  my  wife,  whom  I  loved  with  an 
inexpressible  fondness,  which  was  perfectly  returned  ; 

[85] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

and  my  prospects  were  no  other  than  to  provide  fur 
our  growing  family  ;  for  she  wjis  now  big  of  her  sec- 
ond child  :  I  therefore  took  an  opportunity  to  ask  her 
opinion  of  entering  into  a  retired  life,  which,  after 
hearing  my  reasons  and  perceiving  my  affection  for 
it,  she  readily  embraced.  We  soon  put  our  small 
fortune,  now  reduced  under  three  thousand  pounds, 
into  money,  with  part  of  which  we  purchased  this 
little  place,  w  hither  we  retired  soon  after  her  delivery, 
from  a  world  full  of  bustle,  noise,  hatred,  envy,  and 
ingratitude,  to  ease,  quiet,  and  love.  We  have  here 
lived  almost  twenty  years,  with  little  other  conversa- 
tion than  our  own,  most  of  the  neighborhood  taking 
us  for  very  strange  peo})le  ;  the  squire  of  the  parish 
representing  me  as  a  madman,  and  the  parson  as  a 
presbyterian,  because  I  will  not  hunt  with  the  one 
nor  di'ink  w  ith  the  other.  "  Sir,"  says  Adams,  "  For- 
tune hath,  I  think,  paid  you  all  her  debts  in  this 
sweet  retirement."  Sir,  replied  the  gentleman,  I 
am  thankful  to  the  great  Author  of  all  things  for 
the  blessings  I  here  enjoy.  I  have  the  best  of  wives, 
and  three  pretty  children,  for  whom  I  have  the  true 
tenderness  of  a  parent.  But  no  blessings  are  pure 
in  this  world :  within  three  years  of  my  arrival  here 
I  lost  my  eldest  son.  (Here  he  sighed  bitterly.) 
"  Sir,"  says  Adams,  "  we  must  submit  to  Providence, 
and  consider  death  as  connnon  to  all."  We  must 
submit,  indeed,  answered  the  gentleman  ;  and  if  he 
had  died  I  could  have  borne  the  loss  with  patience  ; 
but  alas  !  sir,  he  w^as  stolen  away  from  my  door  by 
some  wicked  travelling  people  whom  they  call 
gipsies  ;  nor  could  I  ever,   with  the  most   diligent 

[86] 


THE    LOST    CHILD 

search,  recover  him.  Poor  child  !  he  had  the 
sweetest  look  —  the  exact  picture  of  his  mother  ;  at 
which  some  tears  unwittiii<^ly  dropt  from  his  eyes, 
as  did  likewise  from  those  of  Adams,  who  always 
sympathized  with  his  friends  on  those  occasions. 
Thus,  sir,  said  the  gentleman,  I  have  finished  mv 
story,  in  which  if  I  have  been  too  particular,  I  ask 
your  pardon  ;  and  now,  if  you  please,  I  will  fetch 
you  another  bottle :  which  proposal  the  parson 
thankfully   accepted. 


[87] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

A  DESCRIPTION  OF  MR.  WILSON's  WAY  OF  LIVING.  THE 
TRAGICAL  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  DOG,  AND  OTHER 
GRAVE    MATTERS. 

THE  gentleman  returned  with  the  bottle  ; 
and  Adams  and  he  sat  some  time  silent, 
when  the  former  started  up,  and  cried, 
"No,  that  won't  do/'  The  gentleman 
inquired  into  his  meaning ;  he  answered,  "  He  had 
been  considering  that  it  was  possible  the  late  famous 
king  Theodore  might  have  been  that  very  son  whom 
he  had  lost ; "  but  added,  "  that  his  age  could  not 
answer  that  imagination.  However,''"'  says  he,  "G — 
disposes  all  things  for  the  best ;  and  very  probablv  he 
may  be  some  great  man,  or  duke,  and  may,  one  day 
or  other,  revisit  you  in  that  capacity."  The  gentle- 
man answered,  he  should  know  him  amongst  ten 
thousand,  for  he  had  a  mark  on  his  left  breast  of  a 
strawberry,  which  his  mother  had  given  him  by  long- 
inir  for  that  fruit. 


*!-> 


That  beautiful  young  lady  the  Morning  now  rose 
from  her  bed,  and  with  a  countenance  blooming  with 
fresh  youth  and  sprightliness,  like  Miss  —  ,i  with  soft 
dews  hanging  on  her  pouting  lips,  began  to  take 
her  early  walk  over  the  eastern  hills  ;  and  presently 

^  Whoever  the  reader  pleases. 
[88] 


MR.    WILSON'S    GARDEN 

after,  that  gallant  person  the  Sun  stole  softly  from  his 
wife's  chamber  to  pay  his  addresses  to  her ;  when  the 
gentleman  asked  his  guest  if  he  would  walk  fortli 
and  survey  his  little  garden,  which  he  readily  agreed 
to,  and  Joseph,  at  the  same  time  awaking  from  a 
sleep  in  which  he  had  been  two  hours  buried,  went 
with  them.  No  parterres,  no  fountains,  no  statues, 
embellished  this  little  garden.  Its  only  ornament 
was  a  short  walk,  shaded  on  each  side  by  a  filbert- 
hedge,  with  a  small  alcove  at  one  end,  whither  in 
hot  weather  the  gentleman  and  his  wife  used  to  retire 
and  divert  themselves  with  their  children,  who  played 
in  the  walk  before  them.  But,  though  vanity  had 
no  votary  in  this  little  spot,  here  was  variety  of  fruit 
and  everything  useful  for  the  kitchen,  which  was 
abundantly  sufficient  to  catch  the  admiration  of 
Adams,  who  told  the  gentleman  he  had  certainly  a 
good  gardener.  Sir,  answered  he,  that  gardener  is 
now  before  you :  whatever  you  see  here  is  the  work 
solely  of  my  own  hands.  Whilst  I  am  providing 
necessaries  for  my  table,  I  likewise  procure  myself 
an  appetite  for  them.  In  fair  seasons  I  seldom  pass 
less  than  six  hours  of  the  twenty-four  in  this  place, 
where  I  am  not  idle  ;  and  by  these  means  I  have  been 
able  to  preserve  my  health  ever  since  my  arrival  here, 
without  assistance  from  physic.  Hither  I  generally 
repair  at  the  dawn,  and  exercise  myself  whilst  my  wife 
dresses  her  children  and  prepares  our  breakfast ;  after 
which  we  are  seldom  asunder  during  the  residue  of  the 
day,  for,  when  the  w'eather  will  not  permit  them  to 
accompany  me  here,  I  am  usually  within  with  them  ; 
for  I  am  neither  ashamed  of  conversing  with  my  wife 

[89] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

nor  of  playing  with  my  children  :  to  say  the  truth, 
I  do  not  perceive  that  inferiority  of  understanding 
which  the  levity  of  rakes,  the  dulnessof  men  of  business, 
or  the  austerity  of  the  learned,  would  persuade  us  of 
in  women.  As  for  my  woman,  I  declare  I  have  found 
none  of  my  own  sex  capable  of  making  juster  obser- 
vations on  life,  or  of  delivering  them  more  agreeably  ; 
nor  do  I  believe  any  one  possessed  of  a  faithfuller  or 
braver  friend.  And  sure  as  this  friendship  is  sweet- 
ened with  more  delicacy  and  tenderness,  so  is  it  con- 
firmed by  dearer  pledges  than  can  attend  the 
closest  male  alliance  ;  for  what  union  can  be  so  fast 
as  our  connnon  interest  in  the  fruits  of  our  embraces  ? 
Perhaps,  sir,  you  are  not  yourself  a  father  •  if  you 
are  not,  be  assured  you  cannot  conceive  the  delight 
I  have  in  my  little  ones.  Would  you  not  despise  me 
if  you  saw  me  stretched  on  the  ground,  and  my 
children  playing  round  me  ?  "  I  should  reverence 
the  sight,"  quoth  Adams  ;  "  I  myself  am  now  the 
father  of  six,  and  have  been  of  eleven,  and  I  can  say 
I  never  scourged  a  child  of  my  own,  unless  as  his 
schoolmaster,  and  then  have  felt  every  stroke  on  my 
own  posteriors.  And  as  to  what  you  say  concerning 
women,  I  have  often  lamented  my  own  wife  did  not 
understand  Greek."  —  The  gentleman  smiled,  and 
answered,  he  would  not  be  apprehended  to  insinuate 
that  his  own  had  an  understanding  above  the  care 
of  her  family  ;  on  the  contrary,  says  he,  my  Harriet, 
I  assure  you,  is  a  notable  housewife,  and  few  gentle- 
men's housekeepers  understand  cookery  or  confec- 
tionery better;  but  these  are  arts  which  she  hath 
no  great  occasion  for   now :    however,  the  wine  you 

[90] 


DOMESTIC    HAPPINESS 

oommonded  so  much  last  night  at  supper  was  of  her 
own  making,  as  is  indeed  all  the  licjuor  in  my  house, 
except  my  beer,  which  falls  to  my  province.  "  And 
I  assure  you  it  is  as  excellent,"  quoth  Adams,  "  as 
ever  I  tasted."  We  formerly  kept  a  maid-servant, 
but  since  my  girls  have  been  growing  up  she  is 
unwilling  to  indulge  them  in  idleness  ;  for  as  the 
fortunes  I  shall  give  them  will  be  very  small,  we 
intend  not  to  breed  them  above  the  rank  they  are 
likely  to  fill  hereafter,  nor  to  teach  them  to  despise 
or  ruin  a  plain  husband.  Indeed,  I  could  wish  a 
man  of  my  own  temper,  and  a  retired  life,  might  fall  to 
their  lot ;  for  I  have  experienced  that  calm  serene  hap- 
piness, which  is  seated  in  content,  is  inconsistent  with 
the  hurry  and  bustle  of  the  world.  He  was  proceeding 
thus  when  the  little  things,  being  just  risen,  ran  eagerly 
towards  him  and  asked  him  blessing.  They  were  shy 
to  the  strangers,  but  the  eldest  acquainted  her  father, 
that  her  mother  and  the  young  gentlewoman  were  up, 
and  that  breakfast  was  ready.  They  all  went  in,  where 
the  gentleman  was  surpi-ized  at  the  beauty  of  Fanny, 
who  had  now  recovered  herself  from  her  fatigue,  and 
was  entirely  clean  drest ;  for  the  rogues  who  had 
taken  away  her  purse  had  left  her  her  bundle.  But 
if  he  was  so  much  amazed  at  the  beauty  of  this  young 
creature,  his  guests  were  no  less  charmed  at  the  ten- 
derness which  appeared  in  the  behaviour  of  the  hus- 
band and  wife  to  each  other,  and  to  their  children, 
and  at  the  dutiful  and  affectionate  behaviour  of  these 
to  their  parents.  These  instances  pleased  the  well- 
disposed  mind  of  Adams  equally  with  the  i-eadiness 
which  they  exprest  to  oblige  their  guests,  and  their 

[  91  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

forwardness  to  offer  them  the  best  of  everything  in 
their  house ;  and  what  delighted  him  still  more  was 
an  instance  or  two  of  their  charity  ;  for  whilst  they 
were  at  breakfast  the  good  woman  was  called  for  to 
assist  her  sick  neighbour,  which  she  did  with  some 
cordials  made  for  the  public  use,  and  the  good  man 
went  into  his  garden  at  the  same  time  to  supply 
another  with  something  which  he  wanted  thence, 
for  they  had  nothing  which  those  who  wanted  it 
were  not  welcome  to.  These  good  people  were  in  the 
utmost  cheerfulness,  when  they  heard  the  report  of  a 
gun,  and  innnediately  afterwards  a  little  dog,  the 
favourite  of  the  eldest  daughter,  came  limping  in  all 
bloody  and  laid  himself  at  his  mistress's  feet :  the 
poor  girl,  who  was  about  eleven  years  old,  burst  into 
tears  at  the  sight ;  and  presently  one  of  the  neigh- 
bours came  in  and  informed  them  that  the  young 
squire,  the  son  of  the  loi'd  of  the  manor,  had  shot 
him  as  he  past  by,  swearing  at  the  same  time  he  would 
prosecute  the  master  of  him  for  keeping  a  spaniel, 
for  that  he  had  given  notice  he  would  not  suffer  one 
in  the  parish.  The  dog,  whom  his  mistress  had  taken 
into  her  lap,  died  in  a  few  minutes,  licking  her  hand. 
She  exprest  great  agony  at  his  loss,  and  the  other 
children  began  to  cry  for  their  sister's  misfortune  ; 
nor  could  Fanny  herself  refrain.  Whilst  the  father 
and  mother  attempted  to  comfort  her,  Adams  grasped 
his  crabstick  and  would  have  sallied  out  after  the 
squire  had  not  Joseph  withheld  him.  He  could  not 
however  bridle  his  tongue  —  he  pronounced  the  word 
rascal  with  great  emphasis ;  said  he  deserved  to 
be  hanged  more  than  a  highwayman,  and  wished  he 

[92] 


A    TYRANNICAL    DEED 


had  the  .scourging  him.  The  niotlier  took  her  child, 
lamenting  and  carrying  the  dead  favourite  in  her 
arms,  out  of  the  room,  when  the  gentleman  said  this 
was  the  second  time  this  squire  had  endeavoured  to 
kill  the  little  wretch,  and  had  wounded  him  smartly 
once  before;  adding,  he  could  have  no  motive  but 
ill-nature,  for  the  little  thing,  which  was  not  near  as 
big  as  one's  fist,  had  never  been  twenty  yards  from 
the  house  in  the  six  years  his  daughter  had  had  it. 
He  said  he  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  this  usage, 
but  his  father  had  too  great  a  fortune  to  contend 
with  :  that  he  was  as  absolute  as  any  tyrant  in  the 
universe,  and  had  killed  all  the  dogs  and  taken  away 
all  the  guns  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  and  not  only  that, 
but  he  trampled  down  hedges  and  rode  over  corn  and 
gardens,  with  no  more  regard  than  if  they  were  the 
highway.  "  I  wish  I  could  catch  him  in  my  gar- 
den," said  Adams,  "though  I  would  rather  forgive 
him  riding  through  my  house  than  such  an  ilK 
natured  act   as   this." 

The  cheerfulness  of  their  conversation  being  in- 
terrupted by  this  accident,  in  which  the  guests  could 
be  of  no  service  to  their  kind  entertainer ;  and  as  the 
mother  was  taken  up  in  administering  consolation  to 
the  poor  girl,  whose  disposition  was  too  good  hastily 
to  forget  the  sudden  loss  of  her  little  favourite,  which 
had  been  fondling  with  her  a  few  minutes  before  ; 
and  as  Joseph  and  Fanny  were  impatient  to  get  home 
and  begin  those  previous  ceremonies  to  their  happi- 
ness which  Adams  had  insisted  on,  they  now  offered 
to  take  their  leave.  The  gentleman  importuned  them 
much  to  stay  dinner  ;  but  when  he  found  their  eager- 

[93] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

ness  to  depart  ho  summoned  his  wife  ;  and  accord- 
ino'ly,  liaviiit!;  performed  all  tlie  usual  ceremonies  of 
bows  and  curtsies  more  pleasant  to  be  seen  than  to  be 
related,  they  took  their  leave,  the  gentleman  and  his 
wife  heartily  wishing  them  a  good  journey,  and  they 
as  heartily  thanking  them  for  their  kind  entertain- 
ment. They  then  departed,  Adams  declaring  that 
this  was  the  manner  in  which  the  people  had  lived 
in    the  golden  age. 


[91] 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

A  DISPUl'ATION  ON  SCHOOLS  HELD  ON  THE  ROAD  BETWEEN 
MR.  ABRAHAM  ADAMS  AND  JOSEPH  ;  AND  A  DIS- 
COVERY  NOT    UNWELCOME    TO    THEM    BOTH. 

OUR  travellers,having  well  refi-eshed  them- 
selves at  the  geiitlemaii''s  house,  Joseph 
and  Fanny  with  sleep,  and  Mr.  xVbrahain 
Adams  with  ale  and  tobacco,  renewed 
their  journey  with  great  alacrity  ;  and  pursuing  the 
road  into  which  they  \\ere  directed,  travelled  many 
miles  before  they  met  with  any  adventure  worth  relat- 
ing. In  this  interval  we  shall  present  our  readers 
with  a  very  curious  discourse,  as  we  apprehend  it, 
concerning  public  schools,  which  passed  between  Mr. 
Josepli  Andrews  and  Mr.  Abraham  Adams. 

They  had  not  gone  far  before  Adams,  calling  to 
Joseph,  asked  him,  "  If  he  had  attended  to  the  gentle- 
man's story  ?  "  He  answered,  "  To  all  the  former 
part."  —  "  And  don't  you  think,"  says  he,  "  he  was 
a  very  unhappy  man  in  his  youth  ? "  —  "A  very 
unhappy  man,  indeed,"  answered  the  other.  "  Joseph," 
cries  Adams,  screwing  up  his  mouth,  "  I  have  found 
it ;  I  have  discovered  the  cause  of  all  the  misfortunes 
which  befel  him  :  a  public  school,  Joseph,  was  the 
cause  of  all  the  calamities  which  he  afterwards 
suffered.  Public  schools  are  the  imrseries  of  a,ll  vice 
and  innnorality.    All  the  wicked  fellows  whom  I  re- 

[95] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

member  at  the  university  were  bred  at  them.  —  Ah, 
Lord  !  I  can  remember  as  well  as  if  it  was  but  yes- 
tei'day,  a  knot  of  them  ;  they  called  them  King's 
scholars,  I  forget  why  —  very  wicked  fellows  !  Joseph, 
you  may  thank  the  Lord  you  were  not  bred  at  a 
public  school ;  you  would  never  have  preserved  your 
virtue  as  you  have.  The  first  care  I  always  take  is 
of  a  boy''s  morals  ;  I  had  rather  he  should  be  a  block- 
head than  an  atheist  or  a  presbyterian.  What  is  all 
the  learning  in  the  world  compared  to  his  immortal 
soul  ?  What  shall  a  man  take  in  exchange  for  his 
soul  ?  But  the  masters  of  great  schools  trouble  them- 
selves about  no  such  thing.  I  have  known  a  lad  of 
eighteen  at  the  university,  who  hath  not  been  able  to 
say  his  catechism ;  but  for  my  own  part,  I  always 
scourged  a  lad  sooner  for  missing  that  than  any 
other  lesson.  Believe  me,  child,  all  that  gentle- 
man ""s  misfortunes  arose  from  his  being  educated 
at  a  public  school.*" 

"  It  doth  not  become  me,"  answered  Joseph,  "  to 
dispute  anything,  sir,  with  you,  especially  a  matter  of 
this  kind  ;  for  to  be  sure  you  must  be  allowed  by  all 
the  world  to  be  the  best  teacher  of  a  school  in  all 
our  county.""  "  Yes,  that,"  says  Adams,  "  I  believe, 
is  granted  me  ;  that  I  may  without  much  vanity  pre- 
tend to  — nay,  I  believe  I  may  go  to  the  next  county 
too  —  but  gloriari  non  est  meum.''''  —  "  How  ever,  sir, 
as  you  are  pleased  to  bid  me  speak,"  says  Joseph, 
"  you  know  my  late  master,  Sir  Thomas  Booby,  was 
bred  at  a  public  school,  and  he  was  the  finest  gentle- 
man in  all  the  neighbourhood.  And  I  have  often 
heard  him  say,  if  he  had  a  hundred  boys  he  would 

[96] 


DISPUTATION    ON    SCHOOLS 

breed  them  all  at  the  same  place.  It  was  liis  opinion, 
and  I  have  often  heard  him  deliver  it,  that  a  boy 
taken  from  a  public  school  and  carried  into  the 
world,  will  learn  more  in  one  year  there  than  one  of 
a  private  education  will  in  five.  He  used  to  say  the 
school  itself  initiated  him  a  great  way  (I  remember 
that  was  his  very  expression),  for  great  schools  are 
httle  societies,  where  a  boy  of  any  observation  may 
see  in  epitome  what  he  will  afterwards  find  in  the 
world  at  large."  — "  H'mc  illw  lachnpncc:  for  that 
very  reason,"  quoth  Adams,  "I  prefer  a  private 
school,  where  boys  may  be  kept  in  innocence  and 
ignorance  ;  for,  according  to  that  fine  passage  in 
the  play  of  Cato,  the  only  English  tragedy  I  ever 
read  — 

*  If  knowledge  of  the  world  must  make  men  villains 
May  Juba  ever  live  in  ignorance  !  ' 

Who  would  not  rather  preserve  the  purity  of  his 
child  than  wish  him  to  attain  the  whole  circle  of 
arts  and  sciences  .^  which,  by  the  bye,  he  may  learn 
in  the  classes  of  a  private  school  ;  for  I  would  not  be 
vain,  but  I  esteem  myself  to  be  second  to  none,  nulli 
secundum^  in  teaching  these  things  ;  so  that  a  lad 
may  have  as  much  learning  in  a  private  as  in  a  pub- 
lic education."  —  "  And,  with  submission,"  answered 
Joseph,  "  he  may  get  as  much  vice :  witness  several 
country  gentlemen,  who  were  educated  within  fi\e 
miles  of  their  own  houses,  and  are  as  wicked  as  if 
they  had  known  the  world  from  their  infancy.  I 
remember  when  I  was  in  the  stable,  if  a  young  horse 
was  vicious  in  his  nature,  no  correction  would  make 
VOL.  II.  —  7  [  Q'^  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

him  otherwise :  I  take  it  to  be  equally  the  same 
among  men  :  if  a  boy  be  of  a  mischievous  wicked 
inclination,  no  school,  though  ever  so  private,  will 
ever  make  him  ""ood :  on  the  contrary,  if  he  be  of  a 
righteous  temper,  you  may  trust  him  to  London,  or 
wherever  else  you  please  —  he  will  be  in  no  danger 
of  being  corrupted.  Besides,  I  have  often  heard  my 
master  say  that  the  discipline  practised  in  public 
schools  was  much  better  than  that  in  private.''"'  — 
"  You  talk  like  a  jackanapes,"  says  Adams,  "  and  so 
did  your  master.  '  Discipline  indeed !  Because  one 
man  scourges  twenty  or  thirty  boys  more  in  a  morn- 
ing than  another,  is  he  therefore  a  better  discipli- 
narian ?  I  do  presume  to  confer  in  this  point  with  all 
who  have  taught  from  Chiron's  time  to  this  day  ; 
and,  if  I  was  master  of  six  boys  only,  I  would  preserve 
as  good  discipline  amongst  them  as  the  master  of  the 
greatest  school  in  the  world.  I  say  nothing,  young 
man ;  remember  I  say  nothing ;  but  if  Sir  Thomas 
himself  had  been  educated  nearer  home,  and  under 
the  tuition  of  somebody  —  remember  I  name  nobod}^ 
—  it  might  have  been  better  for  him :  —  but  his 
father  must  institute  him  in  the  knowledge  of 
the  world.  Nemo  mortalkim  omn'ihus  horis  sap'it.'''' 
Joseph,  seeing  him  run  on  in  this  manner,  asked 
pardon  many  times,  assuring  him  he  had  no  intention 
to  offend.  "  I  believe  you  had  not,  child,'"'  said  he, 
"  and  I  am  not  angry  with  you  ;  but  for  maintaining 
good  discipline  in  a  school ;  for  this.""  —  And  then 
he  ran  on  as  before,  named  all  the  masters  who  are 
recorded  in  old  books,  and  preferred  himself  to  them 
all.     Indeed,  if  this  good  man  had  an  enthusiasm, 

[98] 


A    WELCOME    DISCOVERY 

or  what  the  vulgar  call  a  blind  side,  it  was  this  : 
he  thought  a  schoolmaster  the  greatest  character  in 
the  world,  and  himself  the  greatest  of  all  school- 
masters :  neither  of  which  points  he  w  ould  have 
given  up  to  Alexander  the  Great  at  the  head  of  his 
army. 

Adams  continued  his  subject  till  they  came  to 
one  of  the  beauti  fullest  spots  of  ground  in  the 
universe.  It  was  a  kind  of  natural  amphitheatre, 
formed  by  the  winding  of  a  small  rivulet,  which  was 
planted  with  thick  woods,  and  the  trees  rose  gradually 
above  eacli  other  by  the  natural  ascent  of  the  ground 
they  stood  on  ;  which  ascent  as  they  hid  with  their 
boughs,  thev  seemed  to  have  been  disposed  by  the 
design  of  the  most  skilful  planter.  The  soil  was 
spread  with  a  verdure  which  no  paint  could  imitate ; 
and  the  whole  place  might  have  raised  romantic 
ideas  in  elder  minds  than  those  of  Joseph  and  Fanny, 
without  the  assistance  of  love. 

Here  they  amved  about  noon,  and  Joseph  proposed 
to  Adams  that  they  should  rest  awhile  in  this  delight- 
ful place,  and  refresh  themselves  with  some  provisions 
which  the  good-nature  of  Mrs.  Wilson  had  provided 
them  with.  Adams  made  no  objection  to  the  pro- 
posal ;  so  down  they  sat,  and,  pulling  out  a  cold 
fowl  and  a  bottle  of  wine,  they  made  a  repast  with 
a  cheerfulness  which  might  have  attracted  the  envy 
of  more  splendid  tables.  I  should  not  omit  that 
they  found  among  their  provision  a  little  paper 
containing  a  })iece  of  gold,  which  Adams  imagining 
had  been  put  there  by  mistake,  would  have  returned 
back  to  restore  it ;  but  he  was  at  last  convinced  by 

[99] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Joseph  that  Mr.  AVilson  had  taken  this  handsome 
way  of  furnishing  them  with  a  supply  for  their 
journey,  on  his  having  related  the  distress  which 
they  had  been  in,  when  they  were  relieved  by  the 
generosity  of  the  pedlar.  Adams  said  he  was  glad 
to  see  such  an  instance  of  goodness,  not  so  much 
for  the  conveniency  which  it  brought  them  as  for 
the  sake  of  the  doer,  w  hose  reward  would  be  great 
in  heaven.  He  likewise  comforted  himself  with  a 
reflection  that  he  should  shortly  have  an  opportunity 
of  returning  it  him  ;  for  the  gentleman  was  within 
a  week  to  make  a  journey  into  Somersetshire,  to  pass 
through  Adams's  parish,  and  had  faithfully  promised 
to  call  on  him  ;  a  circumstance  which  we  thought  too 
immaterial  to  mention  Ijefore ;  but  which  those  who 
have  as  great  an  affection  for  that  gentleman  as  our- 
selves will  rejoice  at,  as  it  may  give  them  hopes  of 
seeing  him  again.  Then  Joseph  made  a  speech  on 
charity,  which  the  reader,  if  he  is  so  disposed,  may 
see  in  the  next  chapter ;  for  we  scorn  to  betray  him 
into  any  such  reading,  without  first  giving  him 
warning. 


[100] 


CHAPTER   SIX 

MORAL  REFLECTIONS  BY  JOSEPH  ANDREWS  ;  WITH  THE 
HUNTING  ADVENTURE,  AND  PARSON  ADAMSES  MIRAC- 
ULOUS ESCAPE. 

HAVE  often  wondered,  sir,"  said  Joseph, 
"  to  observe  so  few  instances  of  charity  among 
mankind  ;    for   though    the    goodness    of  a 

man's   lieart  did  not  incline  him  to  reheve 

the  distresses  of  his  fellow-creatures,  methinks  the 
desire  of  honour  should  move  him  to  it.  What  in- 
spires a  man  to  build  fine  houses,  to  purchase  fine 
furniture,  pictures,  clothes,  and  other  things,  at  a 
great  expense,  but  an  ambition  to  be  respected  more 
than  other  people  .?  Now,  would  not  one  great  act 
of  charity,  one  instance  of  redeeming  a  poor  family 
from  all  the  miseries  of  poverty,  restoring  an  unfor- 
tunate tradesman  by  a  sum  of  money  to  the  means 
of  procuring  a  livelihood  by  his  industry,  discharging 
an  undone  debtor  from  his  debts  or  a  gaol,  or  any 
such-like  example  of  goodness,  create  a  man  more 
honour  and  respect  than  he  could  acquire  by  the 
finest  house,  furniture,  pictures,  or  clothes,  that  were 
ever  beheld  ?  For  not  only  the  object  himself  who 
was  thus  relieved,  but  all  who  heard  the  name  of 
such  a  person,  must,  I  imagine,  reverence  him  in- 
finitely more  than  the  possessor  of  all  those  other 

[101] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

things  ;  wliich  when  we  so  admire,  we  rather  praise 
the  builder,  the  woiknian,  the  painter,  the  lace- 
maker,  the  taylor,  and  the  rest,  by  whose  ingenuity 
they  are  produced,  than  the  person  who  by  his  money 
makes  them  his  own.  For  my  own  part,  when  I  have 
waited  behind  my  lady  in  a  room  hung  with  fine 
pictures,  while  I  have  been  looking  at  them  I  have 
never  once  thought  of  their  owner,  nor  hath  any  one 
else,  as  I  ever  observed  ;  for  when  it  hath  been  asked 
whose  picture  that  was,  it  was  never  once  answered 
the  master"'s  of  tlie  house ;  but  Ammyconni,  Paul 
Varnish,  Hannibal  Scratchi,  or  Hogarthi,  which  I 
suppose  were  the  names  of  the  painters ;  but  if  it 
was  asked  —  Who  redeemed  such  a  one  out  of  prison  ? 
Who  lent  such  a  ruined  tradesman  money  to  set  up  ? 
Who  clothed  that  family  of  poor  small  children  ?  it 
is  very  plain  what  must  be  the  answer.  And  besides, 
these  great  folks  are  mistaken  if  they  imagine  they  get 
any  honour  at  all  by  these  means ;  for  I  do  not  re- 
member I  ever  was  with  my  lady  at  any  house  where 
she  commended  the  house  or  furniture  but  I  have 
heard  her  at  her  return  home  make  sport  and  jeer 
at  whatever  she  had  before  connnended  ;  and  I  have 
been  told  by  other  gentlemen  in  livery  that  it  is  the 
same  in  their  families  :  but  I  defy  the  wisest  man  in 
the  world  to  turn  a  true  good  action  into  ridicule. 
I  defy  him  to  do  it.  He  who  should  endeavour  it 
would  be  laughed  at  himself,  instead  of  making 
others  laugh.  Nobody  scarce  doth  any  good,  yet 
they  all  agree  in  praising  those  who  do.  Indeed,  it 
is  strange  that  all  men  should  consent  in  commend- 
ing goodness,  and  no  man  endeavour  to  deserve  that 

[  102] 


MORAL    REFLECTIONS 

commendation  ;  wliilst,  on  the  contrary,  all  rail  at 
wickedness,  and  all  are  as  eager  to  be  what  they 
abuse.  This  I  know  not  the  reason  of ;  but  it  is  as 
plain  as  daylight  to  those  who  converse  in  the  world, 
as  I  have  done  these  three  years/"'  "  Are  all  the 
great  folks  wicked  then  ?  "  says  Fanny.  "  To  be  sure 
there  are  some  excejitions,"  answered  Joseph.  "  Some 
gentlemen  of  our  cloth  report  charitable  actions  done 
by  their  lords  and  masters  ;  and  I  have  heard  Squire 
Pope,  the  great  poet,  at  my  lady's  table,  tell  stories 
of  a  man  that  lived  at  a  place  called  Ross,  and  an- 
other at  the  Bath,  one  Al —  Al —  I  forget  his  name, 
but  it  is  in  the  book  of  verses.  This  gentleman  hath 
built  up  a  stately  house  too,  which  the  squire  likes 
very  well ;  but  his  charity  is  seen  farther  than  his 
house,  though  it  stands  on  a  hill,  —  ay,  and  brings 
him  more  honour  too.  It  was  his  charity  that  put 
him  in  the  book,  whei'e  the  squire  says  he  puts  all 
those  who  deserve  it ;  and  to  be  sure,  as  he  lives 
among  all  the  great  people,  if  there  were  any  such, 
he  would  know  them."  This  was  all  of  Mr.  Joseph 
Andrews's  speech  which  I  could  get  him  to  recollect, 
which  I  have  delivered  as  near  as  was  possible  in  his 
own  words,  with  a  very  small  embellishment.  But  I 
believe  the  reader  hath  not  been  a  little  surprized  at 
the  long  silence  of  parson  Adams,  especially  as  so 
many  occasions  offered  themselves  to  exert  his  curi- 
osity and  observation.  The  truth  is,  he  was  fast 
asleep,  and  had  so  been  from  the  beginning  of  the 
preceding  narrative ;  and,  indeed,  if  the  reader  con- 
siders that  so  many  hours  had  passed  since  he  had 
closed  his  eyes,  he   will   not  wonder  at  his  repose, 

[  103  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

though  even  Henley  himself,  or  as  great  an  orator 
(if  any  such  be),  had  been  in  his  rostrum  or  tub 
before  him. 

Joseph,  who  whilst  he  was  speaking  had  continued 
in  one  attitude,  with  his  head  reclining  on  one  side, 
and  his  eyes  cast  on  the  ground,  no  sooner  perceived, 
on   looking  up,    the    position    of   Adams,   who   was 
stretched  on  his  back,  and  snored  louder  than  the 
usual  braying  of  the  animal  with  long  ears,  than  he 
turned  towards  Fanny,  and,  taking  her  by  the  hand, 
began  a  dalliance,  which,  though  consistent  with  the 
purest  innocence  and  decency,  neither  he  would  have 
attempted   nor   she    permitted    before   any   witness. 
Whilst  they  amused  themselves   in  this  harmless  and 
delightful    manner    they    heard    a    pack    of   hounds 
approaching  in  full  cry  towards  them,  and  presently 
afterwards  saw  a  hare  pop  forth  from  the  wood,  and, 
crossing  the  water,  land  within  a  few  yards  of  them 
in  the  meadows.     The  hare  was  no  sooner  on  shore 
than  it  seated  itself  on  its  hinder  legs,  and  listened 
to  the  sound  of  the  pursuers.     Fanny  was  wonder- 
fully   pleased   with   the   little    wi-etch,    and    eagerly 
longed  to  have  it  in  her  arms  that  she  might  preserve 
it   from   the   dangers  which  seemed   to  threaten  it ; 
but  the  rational  part  of  the   creation  do  not  always 
aptly  distinguish  their  friends  from  their  foes  ;  what 
wonder  then  if  this  silly  creature,  the  moment  it  be- 
held her,  fled  from  the  friend  who  would   have  pro- 
tected it,  and,  traversing  the  meadows  again,  passed 
the  little  rivulet  on  the  opposite  side  ?     It  was,  how- 
ever, so  spent  and  weak,  that  it  fell  down  tw^ce  or 
thrice  in  its  way.     This  affected  the  tender  heart  of 

[  104-  ] 


THE    HARE    HUNT 

Fanny,  who  exclaimed,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  against 
the  barbarity  of  worrying  a  poor  innocent  defenceless 
animal  out  of  its  life,  and  putting  it  to  the  extremest 
torture  for  diversion.  She  had  not  much  time  to 
make  reflections  of  this  kind,  for  on  a  sudden  the 
hounds  rushed  through  the  wood,  which  resounded 
with  their  throats  and  the  throats  of  their  retinue, 
who  attended  on  them  on  horseback.  The  dogs  now 
past  the  rivulet,  and  pursued  the  footsteps  of  the 
hare ;  five  horsemen  attempted  to  leap  over,  three 
of  whom  succeeded,  and  two  were  in  the  attempt 
thrown  from  their  saddles  into  the  water  ;  their  com- 
panions, and  their  own  horses  too,  proceeded  after 
their  sport,  and  left  their  friends  and  riders  to  invoke 
the  assistance  of  Fortune,  or  employ  the  more  active 
means  of  strength  and  agility  for  their  deliverance. 
Joseph,  however,  was  not  so  unconcerned  on  this 
occasion  ;  he  left  Fanny  for  a  moment  to  herself, 
and  ran  to  the  gentlemen,  who  were  immediately  on 
their  legs,  shaking  their  ears,  and  easily,  with  the  help 
of  his  hand,  obtained  the  bank  (for  the  rivulet  was  not 
at  all  deep)  ;  and,  without  staying  to  thank  their  kind 
assister,  ran  dripping  across  the  meadow,  calling  to 
their  brother  sportsmen  to  stop  their  horses  ;  but 
they  heard  them  not. 

The  hounds  were  now  very  little  behind  their  poor 
reeling,  staggering  prey,  which,  fainting  almost  at 
every  step,  crawled  through  the  wood,  and  had  almost 
got  round  to  the  place  where  Fanny  stood,  when  it 
was  overtaken  by  its  enemies,  and  being  driven  out 
of  the  covert,  was  caught,  and  instantly  tore  to 
pieces  before  Fanny's  face,  who  was  unable  to  assist 

[105] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

it  with  any  aid  more  powerful  than  pity  ;  nor  could 
she  prevail  on  Joseph,  who  had  been  himself  a  sports- 
man in  his  youtli,  to  attempt  anything  contrary  to 
the  laws  of  hunting  in  favour  of  the  hare,  which  he 
said  was  killed  fairly. 

The  hare  was  caught  within  a  yard  or  two  of 
Adams,  who  lay  asleep  at  some  distance  from  the 
lovers  ;  and  the  hounds,  in  devouring  it,  and  pulling 
it  backwards  and  forwards,  had  drawn  it  so  close  to 
him,  that  some  of  them  (by  mistake  perhaps  for  the 
hare's  skin)  laid  hold  of  the  skirts  of  his  cassock  ; 
othei*s  at  the  same  time  applying  their  teeth  to  his 
wig,  which  he  had  with  a  handkerchief  fastened  to 
his  head,  began  to  pull  him  about;  and  had  not  the 
motion  of  his  body  had  more  effect  on  him  than 
seemed  to  be  wrought  by  the  noise,  they  must  cer- 
tainly have  tasted  his  flesh,  which  delicious  flavom- 
might  have  been  fatal  to  him  ;  but  being  roused  by 
these  tuggings,  he  instantly  awaked,  and  with  a  jerk 
delivering  his  head  from  his  wig,  he  with  most  admir- 
able dexterity  recovered  his  legs,  which  now  seemed 
the  only  members  he  could  entrust  his  safety  to. 
Having,  therefore,  escaped  likewise  from  at  least  a 
third  part  of  his  cassock,  which  he  willingly  left  as 
his  eonivice  or  spoils  to  the  enemy,  he  fled  with  the 
utmost  speed  he  could  summon  to  his  assistance. 
Nor  let  this  be  any  detraction  from  the  bravery  of 
his  character :  let  the  number  of  the  enemies,  and 
the  surprize  in  which  he  was  taken,  be  considered ; 
and  if  there  be  any  modern  so  outrageously  brave 
that  he  caimot  admit  of  flight  in  any  circumstance 
whatever,  I  say  (but  I  whisper  that  softly,  and   I 

[106] 


THE    PARSON    PURSUED 

solemnly  declare  without  any  intention  of  giving 
offence  to  any  brave  man  in  the  nation),  I  say,  or 
rather  I  wlnsper,  that  he  is  an  ignorant  fellow,  and 
hath  never  read  Homer  nor  Virgil,  nor  knows  he 
anything  of  Hector  or  Turnus  ;  nay,  he  is  unac- 
quainted with  the  history  of  some  great  men  living, 
who,  though  as  brave  as  lions,  ay,  as  tigers,  have 
run  away,  the  Lord  knows  how  far,  and  the  Lord 
knows  why,  to  the  surprize  of  their  friends  and  the 
entertainment  of  their  enemies.  But  if  persons  of 
such  heroic  disposition  are  a  little  offended  at  the 
behaviour  of  Adams,  we  assure  them  they  shall  be 
as  much  pleased  with  what  we  shall  innnediately 
relate  of  Joseph  Anch'ews.  The  master  of  the  pack 
was  just  arrived,  or,  as  the  sportsmen  call  it,  come 
in,  when  Adams  set  out,  as  we  have  before  men- 
tioned. This  gentleman  was  generally  said  to  be  a 
great  lover  of  humour ;  but,  not  to  mince  the  mat- 
ter, especially  as  we  are  upon  this  subject,  he  was  a 
great  hunter  of  men ;  indeed,  he  had  hitherto  fol- 
lowed the  sport  only  with  dogs  of  his  own  species  ; 
for  he  kept  two  or  three  couple  of  barking  curs  for 
that  use  only.  However,  as  he  thought  he  had  now 
found  a  man  nimble  enough,  he  was  willing  to 
indulge  himself  with  other  sport,  and  accordingly, 
crying  out,  "  Stole  away,"  encouraged  the  hounds  to 
pursue  Mr.  Adams,  swearing  it  was  the  largest  jack- 
hare  he  ever  saw ;  at  the  same  time  hallooing  and 
hooping  as  if  a  conquered  foe  was  flying  before  him  ; 
in  which  he  was  imitated  by  these  two  or  three 
couple  of  human  or  rather  two-legged  curs  on  horse- 
back which  we  have  mentioned  before. 

[107] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Now,  thou,  whoever  thou  art,  whether  a  muse,  or 
by  wliat  other  name  soever  thou  choosest  to  be 
called,  who  presidest  over  biography,  and  hast  in- 
spired all  the  writers  of  lives  in  these  our  times  : 
thou  who  didst  infuse  such  wonderful  humour  into 
the  pen  of  immortal  Gulliver ;  who  hast  carefully 
guided  the  judgment  whilst  thou  hast  exalted  the 
nez'vous  manly  style  of  thy  Mallet :  thou  who  hadst 
no  hand  in  that  dedication  and  preface,  or  the  trans- 
lations, which  thou  wouldst  willingly  have  struck 
out  of  the  life  of  Cicero :  lastly,  thou  who,  without 
the  assistance  of  the  least  spice  of  literature,  and 
even  against  his  inclination,  hast,  in  some  pages  of  his 
book,  forced  Colley  Gibber  to  write  English  ;  do  thou 
assist  me  in  what  I  find  myself  unequal  to.  Do  thou 
introduce  on  the  plain  the  young,  the  gay,  the  brave 
Joseph  Andrews,  whilst  men  shall  view  him  with 
admiration  and  envy,  tender  virgins  with  love  and 
anxious  concern  for  his  safety. 

No  sooner  did  Joseph  Andrews  perceive  the  dis- 
tress of  his  friend,  when  first  the  quick-scenting  dogs 
attacked  him,  than  he  grasped  his  cudgel  in  his  right 
hand  —  a  cudgel  which  his  father  had  of  his  grand- 
father, to  whom  a  mighty  strong  man  of  Kent  had 
given  it  for  a  present  in  that  day  when  he  broke 
three  heads  on  the  stage.  It  was  a  cudgel  of  mighty 
strength  and  wonderful  art,  made  by  one  of  Mr. 
Deard"'s  best  workmen,  whom  no  other  artificer  can 
equal,  and  who  hath  made  all  those  sticks  which  the 
beaus  have  lately  walked  with  about  the  Park  in  a 
morning ;  but  this  was  far  his  masterpiece.  On  its 
head  was  engraved  a  nose  and  chin,  which  might  have 

[108] 


JOSEPH    AIDS    THE    PARSON 

been  mistaken  for  a  pair  of  nutcrackers.  The 
learned  have  imagined  it  designed  to  represent  the 
Gorgon  ;  but  it  was  in  fact  copied  from  the  face  of 
a  certain  long  English  baronet,  of  infinite  wit, 
humour,  and  gravity.  He  did  intend  to  have 
engraved  here  many  histories :  as  the  first  night  of 

Captain  B 's  })lay,  where  you  would  have  seen 

critics  in  embroidery  transplanted  from  the  boxes  to 
the  pit,  whose  ancient  inhabitants  were  exalted  to 
the  galleries,  where  they  played  on  catcalls.  He  did 
intend  to  have  painted  an  auction  room,  where 
Mr.  Cock  would  have  appeared  aloft  in  his  pulpit, 
trumpeting  forth  the  praises  of  a  china  basin,  and 
with    astonishment   wondering  that    "  Nobody  bids 

more  for  that  fine,  that  superb ""  He  did  intend 

to  have  engraved  many  other  things,  but  was  forced 
to  leave  all  out  for  want  of  room. 

No  sooner  had  Joseph  grasped  his  cudgel  in  his 
hands  than  lightning  darted  from  his  eyes  ;  and  the 
heroick  youth,  swift  of  foot,  ran  with  the  utmost 
speed  to  his  friend's  assistance.  He  overtook  him 
just  as  Rock  wood  had  laid  hold  of  the  skirt  of  his 
cassock,  which,  being  torn,  hung  to  the  ground. 
Reader,  we  would  make  a  simile  on  this  occasion, 
but  for  two  reasons  :  the  first  is,  it  would  interrupt 
the  description,  which  should  be  rapid  in  this  part ; 
but  that  doth  not  weigh  much,  many  precedents 
occurring  for  such  an  inten'uption  :  the  second  and 
much  the  greater  reason  is,  that  we  could  find  no 
simile  adequate  to  our  purpose :  for  indeed,  what 
instance  could  we  bring  to  set  before  our  reader''s 
eyes  at  once  the  idea  of  friendship,  courage,  youth, 

[109] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

beauty,  strength,  and  swiftness  ?  all  wliich  blazed  in 
the  person  of  Joseph  Andrews.  Let  those,  there- 
fore, that  describe  lions  and  tigers,  and  heroes  fiercer 
than  both,  raise  their  poems  or  plays  with  the  simile 
of  Joseph  Andrews,  who  is  himself  above  the  reach 
of  any  simile. 

Now  Rock  wood  had  laid  fast  hold  on  the  parson's 
skirts,  and  stopt  his  flight ;  which  Joseph  no  sooner 
perceived  than  he  levelled  his  cudgel  at  his  head  and 
laid  him  sprawling.  Jowler  and  Ringwood  then  fell 
on  his  greatcoat,  and  had  undoubtedly  brought  him 
to  the  ground,  had  not  Joseph,  collecting  all  his 
force,  given  Jowler  such  a  rap  on  the  back,  that, 
quitting  his  hold,  he  ran  howling  over  the  plain.  A 
harder  fate  remained  for  thee,  O  Ringwood !  Ring- 
wood  the  best  hound  that  ever  pursued  a  hare,  who 
never  threw  his  tongue  but  where  the  scent  was 
undoubtedly  true ;  good  at  trailing,  and  sure  in  a 
highway  ;  no  babler,  no  over-runner ;  respected  by 
the  whole  pack,  who,  whenever  he  opened,  knew  the 
game  was  at  hand.  He  fell  by  the  stroke  of  Joseph. 
Thunder  and  Plunder,  and  Wonder  and  Blunder, 
were  the  next  victims  of  his  wrath,  and  measured 
their  lengths  on  the  ground.  Then  Fairmaid,  a 
bitch  which  Mr.  John  Temple  had  bred  up  in  his 
house,  and  fed  at  his  own  table,  and  lately  sent  the 
squire  fifty  miles  for  a  present,  ran  fiercely  at  Joseph 
and  bit  him  by  the  leg:  no  dog  was  ever  fiercer  than 
she,  being  descended  from  an  Amazonian  breed,  and 
had  worried  bulls  in  her  own  country,  but  now  waged 
an  unequal  fight,  and  had  shared  the  fate  of  those 
we   have   mentioned    before,    had    not    Diana    ( the 

[110] 


A    VIOLENT    STRUGGLE 

reader  may  believe  it  or  not  if  he  pleases  )  in  that 
instant  interposed,  and,  in  the  shape  of  the  hunts- 
man, snatched  her  favourite  up  in  her  arms. 

The  parson  now  faced  about,  and  with  his  crab- 
stick  felled  many  to  the  earth,  and  scattered  others, 
till  he  was  attacked  by  Ca>sar  and  pulled  to  the 
ground.  Then  Joseph  flew  to  his  rescue,  and  with 
such  might  fell  on  the  victor,  that,  O  eternal  blot  to 
his  name !  Caesar  ran  yelping  away. 

The  battle  now  raged  with  the  most  dreadful 
violence,  when,  lo  !  the  huntsman,  a  man  of  years 
and  dignity,  lifted  his  voice,  and  called  his  hounds 
from  the  fight,  telling  them,  in  a  language  they 
understood,  that  it  was  in  vain  to  contend  longer, 
for  that  fate  had  decreed  the  victory  to  their 
enemies. 

Thus  far  the  muse  hath  with  her  usual  dignity 
related  this  prodigious  battle,  a  battle  we  apprehend 
never  equalled  by  any  poet,  romance  or  life  writer 
whatever,  and,  having  brought  it  to  a  conclusion, 
she  ceased ;  we  shall  therefore  proceed  in  our  ordi- 
nary style  with  the  continuation  of  this  history. 
The  squire  and  his  companions,  whom  the  figure  of 
Adams  and  the  gallantry  of  Joseph  had  at  first 
thrown  into  a  violent  fit  of  laughter,  and  who  had 
hitherto  beheld  the  engagement  with  more  delight 
than  any  chase,  shooting-match,  race,  cock-fighting, 
bull  or  bear  baiting,  had  ever  given  them,  began 
now  to  apprehend  the  danger  of  their  hounds,  many 
of  which  lay  sprawling  in  the  fields.  The  squire, 
therefore,  having  first  called  his  friends  about  him, 
as  guards  for  safety  of  his  person,  rode  manfully  up 

[111] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

to  the  combatants,  and,  sununoning  all  the  terror  he 
was  master  of  into  his  countenance,  demanded  with 
an  authoritative  voice  of  Joseph  what  he  meant  by 
assaulting  his  dogs  in  that  manner  ?  Joseph  an- 
swered, with  great  intrepidity,  that  they  had  first 
fallen  on  his  friend  ;  and  if  they  had  belonged  to 
the  greatest  man  in  the  kingdom,  he  would  have 
treated  them  in  the  same  way;  for,  whilst  his  veins 
contained  a  single  drop  of  blood,  he  would  not  stand 
idle  by  and  see  that  gentleman  (  pointing  to  Adams) 
abused  either  by  man  or  beast ;  and,  having  so  said, 
both  he  and  Adams  brandished  their  wooden  weap- 
ons, and  put  themselves  into  such  a  posture,  that 
the  squire  and  his  company  thought  proper  to  pre- 
ponderate before  they  oftered  to  revenge  the  cause  of 
their  four-footed  allies. 

At  this  instant  Fanny,  whom  the  apprehension  of 
Joseph's  danger  had  alarmed  so  much  that,  forgetting 
her  own,  she  had  made  the  utmost  expedition,  came 
up.  The  squire  and  all  the  horsemen  were  so  sur- 
prized with  her  beauty,  that  they  immediately  fixed 
both  their  eyes  and  thoughts  solely  on  her,  every 
one  declaring  he  had  never  seen  so  charming  a 
creature.  Neither  mirth  nor  anger  engaged  them  a 
moment  longer,  but  all  sat  in  silent  amaze.  The 
huntsman  only  was  free  from  her  attraction,  who  v  as 
busy  in  cutting  the  ears  of  the  dogs,  and  endeavour- 
ing to  recover  them  to  life  ;  in  which  he  succeeded  so 
well,  that  only  two  of  no  great  note  remained 
slaughtered  on  the  field  of  action.  Upon  this  the 
huntsman  declared,  "  'T  was  well  it  was  no  worse  ; 
for  his  part  he  could  not  blame  the  gentleman,  and 

[112] 


THE    SQUIRE'S    APOLOGY 

wondered  his  master  would  encourage  the  dogs  to 
liunt  Christians  ;  that  it  was  the  surest  way  to  spoil 
them,  to  make  them  follow  vermin  instead  of  stick- 
ing to  a  hare." 

The  squire,  being  informed  of  the  little  mischief 
that  had  been  done,  and  perhaps  having  more  mis- 
chief of  another  kind  in  his  head,  accosted  Mr. 
Adams  with  a  more  favourable  aspect  than  before : 
he  told  him  he  was  sorry  for  what  had  happened; 
that  he  had  endeavoured  all  he  could  to  prevent  it 
the  moment  he  was  acquainted  with  his  cloth,  and 
greatly  commended  the  courage  of  his  servant,  for 
so  he  imagined  Joseph  to  be.  He  then  invited  Mr. 
Adams  to  dinner,  and  desired  the  young  woman 
might  come  with  him.  Adams  refused  a  long  while  ; 
but  the  invitation  was  repeated  with  so  much  earnest- 
ness and  courtesy,  that  at  length  he  was  forced  to 
accept  it.  His  wig  and  hat,  and  other  spoils  of  the 
field,  being  gathered  together  by  Joseph  (  for  other- 
wise probably  they  would  have  been  forgotten  ),  he 
put  himself  into  the  best  order  he  could  ;  and  then 
the  horse  and  foot  moved  forward  in  the  same  pace 
towards  the  squire's  house,  which  stood  at  a  very 
little  distance. 

Whilst  they  were  on  the  road  the  lovely  Fanny 
attracted  the  eyes  of  all :  they  endea\  oured  to  outvie 
one  another  in  encomiums  on  her  beauty  ;  which  the 
reader  will  pardon  my  not  relating,  as  they  had  not 
anything  new  or  uncommon  in  them  :  so  must  he 
likewise  my  not  setting  down  the  many  curious  jests 
which  were  made  on  .Adams;  some  of  them  declai-ing 
that  parson-hunting  was  the  best  sport  in  the  world  ; 
VOL.  II.  —8  [  113  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

others  commending  his  standing  at  bay,  which  they 
said  he  had  done  as  well  as  any  badger ;  with  such 
like  merriment,  which,  though  it  would  ill  become 
the  dignity  of  this  history,  afforded  much  laughter 
and  diversion  to  the  squire  and  his  facetious  com- 
panions. 


[114  1 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

A    SCENE    OF    ROASTING,   VERY    NICELY   ADAPTED   TO   THE 
PRESENT    TASTE    AND    TIMES. 

THEY  arrived  at  the  squire's  house  just  as 
liis  dinner  was  ready.  A  Httle  dispute 
arose  on  the  account  of  Fanny,  whom 
the  s{|uire,  who  was  a  bachelor,  was 
desirous  to  place  at  his  own  table  ;  but  she  would 
not  consent,  nor  would  Mr.  Adams  permit  her  to  be 
parted  from  Joseph  ;  so  that  she  was  at  length  with 
him  consigned  over  to  the  kitchen,  where  the  servants 
were  ordered  to  make  him  drunk  ;  a  favour  which 
was  likewise  intended  for  Adams ;  which  design 
being  executed,  the  squire  thought  he  should  easily 
accomplish  what  he  had  when  he  first  saw  her  in- 
tended to  perpetrate  with  Fanny. 

It  may  not  be  improper,  before  we  proceed  farther, 
to  open  a  little  the  character  of  this  gentleman,  and 
that  of  his  friends.  The  master  of  this  house,  then, 
was  a  man  of  a  very  considerable  fortune  ;  a  bachelor, 
as  we  have  said,  and  about  forty  years  of  age  :  he 
had  been  educated  (if  we  may  use  the  expression)  in 
the  country,  and  at  his  own  home,  under  the  care  of 
his  mother,  and  a  tutor  who  had  orders  never  to 
correct  him,  nor  to  compel  him  to  learn  more  than 
he  liked,  which  it  seems  was  very  little,  and  that  only 
in  his  childhood  ;   for  from   the  age  of  fifteen  he 

[115] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

addicted  himself  entirely  to  huntini;  and  other  rural 
amusements,  for  which  liis  mother  took  care  to  equip 
him  with  horses,  hounds,  and  all  other  necessaries  ; 
and  his  tutor,  endeavouring  to  ingratiate  himself 
with  his  young  pupil,  who  would,  he  knew,  be  able 
handsomely  to  provide  for  him,  became  his  com- 
panion, not  only  at  these  exercises,  but  likewise  over 
a  bottle,  which  the  young  squire  had  a  very  early 
relish  for.  At  the  age  of  twenty  his  mother  began 
to  think  she  had  not  fulfilled  the  duty  of  a  parent; 
she  therefore  resolved  to  persuade  her  son,  if  possible, 
to  that  which  she  imagined  would  well  supply  all 
that  he  might  have  learned  at  a  public  school  or 
university —  this  is  what  they  commonly  call  travel- 
ling; which,  with  the  help  of  the  tutor,  who  was 
fixed  on  to  attend  him,  she  easily  succeeded  in. 
He  made  in  three  years  the  tour  of  Europe,  as  they 
term  it,  and  returned  home  well  furnished  with 
French  clothes,  phrases,  and  servants,  with  a  hearty 
contempt  for  his  own  country  ;  especially  what  had 
any  savour  of  the  plain  spirit  and  honesty  of  our 
ancestors.  His  mother  greatly  applauded  herself  at 
his  return.  And  now,  being  master  of  his  own 
fortune,  he  soon  procured  himself  a  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment, and  was  in  the  common  opinion  one  of  the 
finest  gentlemen  of  his  age  :  but  what  distinguished 
him  chiefly  was  a  strange  delight  which  he  took  in 
everything  which  is  ridiculous,  odious,  and  absurd 
in  his  own  species ;  so  that  he  never  chose  a  com- 
panion without  one  or  more  of  these  ingredients,  and 
those  who  were  marked  by  nature  in  the  most  emi- 
nent  degree   with   them  were  most    his  favourites. 

[116] 


AN    ILL-MANNERED    COMPANY 

If  he  ever  found  a  man  who  either  had  not,  or  en- 
deavoured to  conceal,  these  imperfections,  he  took 
great  pleasure  in  inventing  methods  of  forcing  him 
into  absurdities  which  were  not  natural  to  him,  or 
in  drawing  forth  and  exposing  those  that  were ;  for 
which  purpose  he  was  always  provided  with  a  set  of 
fellows,  whom  we  have  before  called  curs,  and  who 
did,  indeed,  no  great  honour  to  the  canine  kind  ; 
their  business  was  to  hunt  out  and  display  every- 
thing; that  had  anv  savour  of  the  above-mentioned 
qualities,  and  especially  in  the  gravest  and  best  char- 
acters ;  but  if  they  failed  in  their  search,  they  were  to 
turn  even  virtue  and  wisdom  themselves  into  ridicule, 
for  the  diversion  of  their  master  and  feeder.  The 
gentlemen  of  curlike  disposition  who  were  now  at  his 
house,  and  whom  he  had  brought  with  him  from 
London,  were,  an  old  half-pay  officer,  a  player,  a  dull 
poet,  a  quack-doctor,  a  scraping  fiddler,  and  a  lame 
German  dancing-master. 

As  soon  as  dinner  was  served,  while  Mr.  Adams 
was  saying  grace,  the  captain  conveyed  his  chair 
from  behind  him  ;  so  that  when  he  endeavoured  to 
seat  himself  he  fell  down  on  the  ground,  and  this 
completed  joke  the  first,  to  the  great  entertainment 
of  the  whole  company.  The  second  joke  was  per- 
formed by  the  poet,  who  sat  next  him  on  the  other 
side,  and  took  an  opportunity,  while  poor  Adams 
was  respectfully  drinking  to  the  master  of  the  house, 
to  overturn  a  plate  of  soup  into  his  breeches  ;  which, 
with  the  many  apologies  he  made,  and  the  parson's 
gentle  answers,  caused  much  mirth  in  the  company. 
Joke  the  third  was  served  up  by  one  of  the  waiting- 

[117] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

men,  who  had  been  ordered  to  convey  a  quantity  of 
gin  into  Mr.  Adams's  ale,  whidi  he  declaring  to  be 
the  best  liquor  he  ever  drank,  but  rather  too  rich  of 
the  malt,  contributed  again  to  their  laughter.  ]\Ir. 
Adams,  from  whom  we  had  most  of  this  relation, 
could  not  recollect  all  the  jests  of  this  kind  practised 
on  him,  which  the  inoffensive  disposition  of  his  own 
heart  made  him  slow  in  discovering  ;  and  indeed,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  information  which  we  received 
from  a  servant  of  the  family,  this  part  of  our  history, 
which  we  take  to  be  none  of  the  least  curious,  nmst 
have  been  deplorably  imperfect ;  though  we  must 
own  it  probable  that  some  more  jokes  were  (  as  they 
call  it)  cracked  during  their  dinner ;  but  we  have  by 
no  means  Ijeen  able  to  come  at  the  knowledge  of 
them.  When  dinner  was  removed,  the  poet  began 
to  repeat  some  verges,  which,  he  said,  were  made 
extempore.  The  following  is  a  copy  of  them,  pro- 
cured with  the  greatest  difficulty  :  — 

An  extempore  Poem  on  parson  Adams. 

Did  ever  mortal  such  a  parson  view  ? 

His  cassock  old,  his  wig  not  over-new. 

Well  might  the  hounds  have  him  for  fox  mistaken, 

In  smell  more  like  to  that  than  rusty  bacon  ;* 

But  would  it  not  make  any  mortal  stare 

To  see  this  parson  taken  for  a  hare  ? 

Could  Phoebus  err  thus  grossly,  even  he 

For  a  good  player  might  have  taken  thee. 

At  which  words  the  bard  whipt  off"  the  player"'s 
wig,  and  received  the  approbation  of  the  company, 

^  All  hounds  that  will  hunt  fox  or  other  vermin  will  hunt  a 
piece  of  rusty  bacon  trailed  on  the  ground. 

[118] 


THE    DANCING-MASTER 

rather  perhaps  for  the  dexterity  of  his  hand  than  his 
head.     The  player,  instead  of  retorting  the  jest  on 
the  poet,  began  to  display  his  talents  on  the  same 
subject.     He  repeated    many    scraps  of  wit  out  of 
plays,  reflecting  on  the   whole  body  of  the  clergy, 
which  were  received  with  great  acclamations  by  all 
present.     It  was  now  the  dancing-master's  turn  to 
exhibit  his  talents ;  he  therefore,  addressing  himself 
to  Adams  in  broken  English,  told  him,  "  He  was  a 
man  ver  well  made  for  de  dance,  and  he  suppose  by 
his  walk  dat  he  had  learn  of  some  great  master.'' 
He  said,  "  It  was  ver  pretty  quality  in  clergyman  to 
dance  ; "  and  concluded  with  desiring  him  to  dance 
a  minuet,  telling  him,  "  his  cassock  would  serve  for 
petticoats  ;  and  that  he  w  ould  himself  be  his  partner." 
At  which  words,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he 
pulled  out  his  gloves,  and  the  fiddler  was  preparing 
his  fiddle.     The  company  all  offered   the  dancing- 
master   wagers    that    the   parson    out-danced    him, 
which  he  refused,  saying  "  he  believed  so  too,  for  he 
had  never  seen  any  man  in  his  life  who  looked  de 
dance  so  well  as  de  gentleman  : "  he  then  stepped 
forwards  to  take   Adams   by  the  hand,   which  the 
latter  hastily  withdrew,  and,  at  the  same  time  clench- 
ing his  fist,  advised  him  not  to  carry  the  jest  too  far, 
for  he   would    not   endure   being   put    upon.     The 
dancing-master    no    sooner    saw    the    fist    than     he 
prudently  retired  out  of  its  reach,  and  stood  aloof, 
mimicking  Adams,   whose  eyes  were  fixed  on    him, 
not  guessing  what  he  was  at,  but  to  avoid  his  laying 
hold  on  him,  wliich  he  had  once  attempted.      In  the 
meanwhile,  the  captain,  perceiving  an  opportunity. 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

pinned  a  cracker  or  devil  to  the  cassock,  and  then 
lighted  it  with  their  little  smoking-candle.  Adams, 
being  a  stranger  to  this  sport,  and  believing  he  had 
been  blown  up  in  reality,  started  from  his  chair,  and 
jumped  about  the  room,  to  the  infinite  joy  of  the 
beholders,  who  declared  he  was  the  best  dancer  in 
the  universe.  As  soon  as  the  devil  had  done  torment- 
ing him,  and  he  had  a  little  recovered  his  confusion, 
he  returned  to  the  table,  standing  up  in  the  posture 
of  one  who  intended  to  make  a  speech.  They  all 
cried  out,  "  Hear  him,  hear  him ; "  and  he  then 
spoke  in  the  following  manner  :  "  Sir,  I  am  sorry  to 
see  one  to  whom  Providence  hath  been  so  bountiful 
in  bestowing  his  favours  make  so  ill  and  ungrateful 
a  return  for  them  ;  for,  though  you  have  not  insulted 
me  yourself,  it  is  visible  you  have  delighted  in  those 
that  do  it,  nor  have  once  discouraged  the  many 
rudenesses  which  have  been  shown  towards  me ; 
indeed,  towards  yourself,  if  you  rightly  understood 
them  ;  for  I  am  your  guest,  and  by  the  laws  of  hospi- 
tality entitled  to  your  protection.  One  gentleman 
had  thought  proper  to  produce  some  poetry  upon 
me,  of  which  I  shall  only  say,  that  I  had  rather  be 
the  subject  than  the  composer.  He  hath  pleased  to 
treat  me  with  disrespect  as  a  parson.  I  apprehend 
my  order  is  not  the  subject  of  scorn,  nor  that  I  can 
become  so,  unless  by  being  a  disgrace  to  it,  which  I 
hope  poverty  will  never  be  called.  Another  gentle- 
man, indeed,  hath  repeated  some  sentences,  where 
the  order  itself  is  mentioned  with  contempt.  He 
says  they  are  taken  from  plays.  I  am  sure  such  plays 
are  a  scandal  to  the  government  which  permits  them, 

[  120  J 


THE    PARSON'S    SPEECH 

and  cursed  will  be  the  nation  where  they  are  repre- 
sented. How  others  have  treated  me  I  need  not 
observe;  they  themselves,  when  they  reflect,  must 
allow  the  behaviour  to  be  as  improper  to  my  years 
as  to  my  cloth.  You  found  me,  sir,  travelling  vvith 
two  of  my  parishioners  (I  omit  your  hounds  falling 
on  me ;  for  I  have  quite  forgiven  it,  whether  it  pro- 
ceeded from  the  wantonness  or  negligence  of  the 
huntsman) :  my  appearance  might  very  well  persuade 
you  that  your  invitation  was  an  act  of  charity, 
though  in  reality  we  were  well  provided  ;  yes, 
sir,  if  we  had  had  an  hundred  miles  to  travel,  we 
had  sufficient  to  bear  our  expenses  in  a  noble 
manner.""  (At  which  words  he  produced  the  half- 
guinea  which  was  found  in  the  basket.)  "  I  do  not 
show  you  this  out  of  ostentation  of  riches,  but  to 
convince  you  I  speak  truth.  Your  seating  me  at 
your  table  was  an  honour  which  I  did  not  ambitiously 
affect.  When  I  was  here,  I  endeavoured  to  behave 
towards  you  with  the  utmost  respect ;  if  I  have 
failed,  it  was  not  with  design ;  nor  could  I,  certainly, 
so  far  be  guilty  as  to  deserve  the  insults  I  have 
suffered.  If  they  were  meant,  therefore,  either  to 
my  order  or  my  poverty  (and  you  see  I  am  not  very 
poor),  the  shame  doth  not  lie  at  my  door,  and  I 
heartily  pray  that  the  sin  may  be  averted  from 
yours."  He  thus  finished,  and  received  a  general 
clap  from  the  whole  company.  Then  the  gentleman 
of  the  house  told  him,  "  He  was  sorry  for  what  had 
happened  ;  that  he  could  not  accuse  him  of  any 
share  in  it ;  that  the  verses  w^ere,  as  himself  had  well 
observed,  so  bad,  that  he  might  easily  answer  them  ; 

[121] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

and  for  the  serpent,  it  w.os  undoubtedly  a  very  great 
affront  done  him  hy  the  dancing-master,  for  which, 
if  he  well  thrashed  him,  as  he  deserved,  he  should 
be  very  much  pleased  to  see  it "  (in  which,  probably, 
he  spoke  truth).  Adams  answered,  "  Whoever  had 
done  it,  it  was  not  his  profession  to  jjunish  liim  that 
way ;  but  for  the  person  whom  he  had  accused,  I  am 
a  witness,'*"'  says  he,  "  of  his  innocence  ;  for  I  had  my 
eye  on  him  all  the  while.  Whoever  he  was,  God 
forgive  him,  and  bestow  on  him  a  little  more  sense 
as  well  as  humanity."  The  captain  answered  with  a 
surly  look  and  accent,  "  That  he  hoped  he  did  not 
mean  to  reflect  upon  him ;  d — n  him,  he  had  as 
much  imanity  as  another,  and,  if  any  man  said  he 
had  not,  he  would  convince  him  of  his  mistake  by 
cutting  his  throat."  Adams,  .smiling,  said,  "  He 
believed  he  had  spoke  right  by  accident."  To  which 
the  captain  returned,  "  What  do  you  mean  by  my 
speaking  right  ?  If  you  was  not  a  parson,  I  would 
not  take  these  words ;  but  your  gown  protects  you. 
If  any  man  who  wears  a  sword  had  said  so  much,  I 
had  pulled  him  by  the  nose  before  this."  Adams 
replied,  "  If  he  attempted  any  rudeness  to  his 
person,  he  would  not  find  any  protection  for  him- 
self in  his  gown  ;  "  and,  clenching  his  fist,  declared 
"  he  had  thrashed  many  a  stouter  man."  The 
gentleman  did  all  he  could  to  encourage  this  war- 
like disposition  in  Adams,  and  was  in  hopes  to  have 
produced  a  battle,  but  he  was  disappointed  ;  for  the 
caj)tain  made  no  other  answer  than,  "  It  is  very  well 
you  are  a  {)arson  ; "  and  so,  drinking  ofl'  a  bumper  to 
old  mother  Church,  oidcd  the  dis])ute. 

[  122  ] 


CHOICE    OF    AMUSEMENTS 

Then  the  doctor,  who  h.ad  hitherto  been  silent, 
and  who  was  the  gravest  but  most  mischievous  dog 
of  all,  in  a  very  pompous  speech  highly  applauded 
what  Adams  had  said,  and  as  much  disconnnended 
the  behaviour  to  him.  He  proceeded  to  encomiums 
on  the  Church  and  poverty ;  and,  lastly,  recommended 
forgiveness  of  what  had  passed  to  Adams,  who 
immediately  answered,  "That  everything  was  for- 
given ; "  and  in  the  warmth  of  his  goodness  he  filled 
a  bumper  of  strong  beer  (a  liquor  he  preferred  to 
wine),  and  drank  a  health  to  the  whole  company, 
shaking  the  captain  and  the  poet  heartily  by  the 
hand,  and  addressing  himself  with  great  respect  to 
the  doctor ;  who,  indeed,  had  not  laughed  outwardly 
at  anything  that  past,  as  he  had  a  perfect  command 
of  his  muscles,  and  could  laugh  inwardly  without 
betraying  the  least  symptoms  in  his  countenance. 
The  doctor  now  began  a  second  formal  speech,  in 
which  he  declaimed  against  all  levity  of  conversation, 
and  what  is  usually  called  mirth.  He  said,  "  There 
were  amusements  fitted  for  persons  of  all  ages  and 
degrees,  from  the  rattle  to  the  discussing  a  point  of 
philosophy  ;  and  that  men  discovered  themselves  in 
nothiniT  more  than  in  the  choice  of  their  amuse- 
ments ;  for,"  says  he,  "  as  it  must  greatly  raise  our 
expectation  of  the  future  conduct  in  life  of  boys 
whom  in  their  tender  years  we  perceive,  instead  of 
taw  or  balls,  or  other  childish  playthings,  to  chuse, 
at  their  leisure  hours,  to  exercise  their  genius  in 
contentions  of  wit,  learning,  and  such  like ;  so  must 
it  inspire  one  with  equal  contempt  of  a  man,  if  we 
should  discover  him  playing  at  taw  or  other  childish 

[  123] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

plav."  Adams  higlily  commended  the  doctor's 
opinion,  and  said,  "  He  had  often  wondered  at  some 
passages  in  ancient  authors,  where  Scipio,  Lsehus, 
and  other  great  men  were  represented  to  liave  passed 
many  hours  in  amusements  of  the  most  trifling 
kind."  The  doctor  rephed,  "  He  had  by  him  an  old 
Greek  manuscript  where  a  favourite  diversion  of 
Socrates  was  recorded."  "  Ay ! "  says  the  parson 
eagerly  ;  "  I  should  be  most  infinitely  obliged  to  you 
for  the  favour  of  perusing  it."  The  doctor  promised 
to  send  it  him,  and  farther  said,  "  That  he  believed 
he  could  describe  it.  I  think,"  says  he,  "as  near  as 
I  can  remember,  it  was  this :  there  was  a  throne 
erected,  on  one  side  of  which  sat  a  king  and  on  the 
other  a  queen,  with  their  guards  and  attendants 
ranged  on  both  sides  ;  to  them  was  introduced  an 
ambassador,  which  part  Socrates  always  used  to  per- 
form himself;  and  when  he  was  led  up  to  the  foot- 
steps of  the  throne  he  addressed  himself  to  the 
monarchs  in  some  grave  speech,  full  of  virtue,  and 
goodness,  and  morality,  and  such  like.  After  which, 
he  was  seated  between  the  king  and  queen,  and  roy- 
ally entertained.  This  I  think  was  the  chief  part. 
Perhaps  I  may  have  forgot  some  particulai's  ;  for  it 
is  long  since  I  read  it."  Adams  said,  "It  was, 
indeed,  a  diversion  worthy  the  relaxation  of  so  great 
a  man  ;  and  thought  something  resembling  it  should 
be  instituted  among  our  great  men,  instead  of  cards 
and  other  idle  pastime,  in  which,  he  was  informed, 
they  trifled  away  too  nmch  of  their  lives."  He 
added,  "  The  Christian  religion  was  a  nobler  subject 
for   these  speeches    than    any    Socrates   could    have 

[  124] 


THE    DOCTOR'S    JOKE 

invented."  The  gentleman  of  the  house  approved 
what  Mr.  Adams  said,  and  declared  "  he  was  resolved 
to  perform  the  ceremony  this  very  evening."  To 
which  the  doctor  objected,  as  no  one  was  prepared 
with  a  speech,  "  unless,"  said  he  (turning  to  Adams 
with  a  gravity  of  countenance  which  would  have 
deceived  a  more  knowing  man),  "  you  have  a  sermon 
about  you,  doctor."  "Sir,"  said  Adams,  "I  never 
travel  without  one,  for  fear  of  what  may  happen." 
He  was  easily  prevailed  on  by  his  worthy  friend,  as 
he  now  called  the  doctor,  to  undertake  the  part  of 
the  ambassador ;  so  that  the  gentleman  sent  imme- 
diate orders  to  have  the  throne  erected,  which  was 
performed  before  they  had  drank  two  bottles  ;  and, 
perhaps,  the  reader  will  hereafter  have  no  great 
reason  to  admire  the  nimbleness  of  the  servants. 
Indeed,  to  confess  the  truth,  the  throne  was  no  more 
than  this  :  there  was  a  great  tub  of  water  provided, 
on  each  side  of  which  were  placed  two  stools  raised 
higher  than  the  surface  of  the  tub,  and  over  the 
whole  was  laid  a  blanket ;  on  these  stools  were 
placed  the  king  and  queen,  namely,  the  master  of 
the  house  and  the  captain.  And  now  the  ambassa- 
dor was  introduced  between  the  poet  and  the  doctor ; 
who,  having  read  his  sermon,  to  the  great  entertain- 
ment of  all  present,  was  led  up  to  his  place  and 
seated  between  their  majesties.  They  immediately 
rose  up,  when  the  blanket,  wanting  its  supports  at 
either  end,  gave  way,  and  soused  Adams  over  head 
and  ears  in  the  water.  The  captain  made  his  escape, 
but,  unluckily,  the  gentleman  himself  not  being  as 
nimble   as  he   ought,  Adams   caught   hold  of  him 

[125] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

before  he  descended  from  his  throne,  and  pulled 
him  in  with  him,  to  the  entire  secret  satisfaction  of 
all  the  company.  Adams,  after  ducking  the  squire 
twice  or  thrice,  leapt  out  of  the  tub,  and  looked 
sharp  for  the  doctor,  whom  he  would  certainly  have 
conveyed  to  the  same  place  of  honour  ;  but  he  had 
wisely  withdrawn  :  he  then  searched  for  his  crabstick, 
and  having  found  that,  as  well  as  his  fellow  travel- 
lers, he  declared  he  would  not  stay  a  moment  longer 
in  such  a  house.  He  then  departed,  without  taking 
leave  of  his  host,  whom  he  had  exacted  a  more 
severe  revenge  on  than  he  intended ;  for,  as  he  did 
not  use  sufficient  care  to  dry  himself  in  time,  he 
caught  a  cold  by  the  accident  which  threw  him  into 
a  fever  that  had  like  to  have  cost  him  his  life. 


[126] 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

WHICH     SOME     EEADERS     WILL     THINK     TOO     SHORT     AND 
OTHERS  TOO  LONG. 

^  DAMS,  and  Joseph,  who  was  no  less  enraged 
/^L  than  his  friend  at  the  treatment  he  met 
/  ^k  with,  went  out  with  their  sticks  in  their 
^  ^  hands,  and  carried  off  Fanny,  notwith- 
standing the  opposition  of  the  servants,  who  did 
all,  without  proceeding  to  violence,  in  their  power  to 
detain  them.  They  walked  as  fast  as  they  could, 
not  so  much  from  any  apprehension  of  being  pur- 
sued as  that  Mr.  Adams  might,  by  exercise,  prevent 
any  harm  from  the  water.  The  gentleman,  who  had 
given  such  orders  to  his  servants  concerning  Fanny 
that  he  did  not  in  the  least  fear  her  getting  away, 
no  sooner  heard  that  she  was  gone,  than  he  began  to 
rave,  and  immediately  despatched  several  with 
orders  either  to  bring  her  back  or  never  return. 
The  poet,  the  player,  and  all  but  the  dancing-master 
and  doctor,  went  on  this  errand. 

The  night  was  very  dark  in  which  our  friends 
began  their  journey ;  however,  they  made  such  ex- 
pedition, that  they  soon  arrived  at  an  inn  which  was 
at  seven  miles'  distance.  Here  they  unanimously 
consented  to  pass  the  evening,  Mr.  Adams  being  now 
as  dry  as  he  was  before  he  had  set  out  on  his 
embassy. 

[127] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

This  inn,  which  indeed  we  might  call  an  ale-house, 
had  not  the  words,  The  New  Inn,  been  writ  on  the 
sign,  afforded  them  no  better  provision  than  bread 
and  cheese  and  ale  ;  on  which,  however,  they  made 
a  very  comfortable  meal ;  for  hunger  is  better  than 
a  French  cook. 

They  had  no  sooner  supped,  than  Adams,  return- 
ing thanks  to  the  Almighty  for  his  food,  declared  he 
had  eat  his  homely  connnons  with  much  greater 
satisfaction  than  his  splendid  dinner ;  and  expressed 
great  contempt  for  the  folly  of  mankind,  who  sacri- 
ficed their  hopes  of  heaven  to  the  acquisition  of  vast 
wealth,  since  so  much  comfort  was  to  be  found  in  the 
humblest  state  and  the  lowest  provision.  "  Very  true, 
sir,""  says  a  grave  man  who  sat  smoaking  his  pipe  by 
the  fire,  and  who  was  a  traveller  as  well  as  himself. 
"  I  have  often  been  as  much  surprized  as  you  are, 
when  I  consider  the  value  which  mankind  in  general 
set  on  riches,  since  every  day's  experience  shows  us 
how  little  is  in  their  power ;  for  what,  indeed,  truly 
desirable,  can  they  bestow  on  us  ?  Can  they  give 
beauty  to  the  deformed,  strength  to  the  weak,  or 
health  to  the  infirm  ?  Surely  if  they  could  we 
should  not  see  so  many  ill-favoured  faces  haunting 
the  assemblies  of  the  great,  nor  would  such  numbers 
of  feeble  wretches  languish  in  their  coaches  and 
palaces.  No,  not  the  wealth  of  a  kingdom  can  pur- 
chase any  paint  to  dress  pale  Ugliness  in  the  bloom 
of  that  young  maiden,  nor  any  drugs  to  equip  Disease 
with  the  vigour  of  that  young  man.  Do  not  riches 
bring  us  to  solicitude  instead  of  rest,  envy  instead  of 
affection,  and  danger  instead  of  safety  ?     Can  they 

[128] 


DISCUSSION    ON    RICHES 

prolong  their  own  possession,  or  lengthen  his  days 
who  enjoys  them  ?  So  far  otherwise,  that  the  sloth, 
the  luxury,  the  care  which  attend  them,  shorten 
the  lives  of  millions,  and  bring  them  with  pain  and 
miseiy  to  an  untimely  grave.  Where,  then,  is  their 
value  if  they  can  neither  embellish  nor  strengthen 
our  forms,  sweeten  nor  prolong  our  lives  ?  —  Again  : 
Can  they  adorn  the  mind  more  than  the  body  ?  Do 
they  not  rather  swell  the  heart  with  vanity,  puff  up 
the  cheeks  with  pride,  shut  our  ears  to  every  call  of 
virtue,  and  our  bowels  to  every  motive  of  compas- 
sion ?  "  *'  Give  me  your  hand,  brother,'"  said  Adams, 
in  a  rapture,  "  for  I  suppose  you  are  a  clergyman."  — 
"  No,  truly,"  answered  the  other  (indeed,  he  was  a 
priest  of  the  Church  of  Rome ;  but  those  who  under- 
stand our  laws  will  not  wonder  he  was  not  over-ready 
to  own  it). — "Whatever  you  are,''  cries  Adams, 
"you  have  spoken  my  sentiments:  I  believe  I  have 
preached  every  syllable  of  your  speech  twenty  times 
over ;  for  it  hath  always  appeared  to  me  easier  for  a 
cable-rope  (which  by  the  way  is  the  true  rendering 
of  that  word  we  have  translated  camel)  to  go 
through  the  eye  of  a  needle  than  for  a  rich  man  to 
get  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  —  "That,  sir," 
said  the  other,  "  will  be  easily  granted  you  by 
divines,  and  is  deplorably  true  ;  but  as  the  prospect 
of  our  good  at  a  distance  doth  not  so  forcibly  affect 
us,  it  might  be  of  some  service  to  mankind  to  be 
made  thoroughly  sensible  —  which  I  think  they 
might  be  with  very  little  serious  attention  —  that 
even  the  blessings  of  this  world  are  not  to  be  pur- 
chased with  riches  ;  a  doctrine,  in  my  opinion,  not 

V0L.II.-9  [129] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

only  metaphysically,  but,  if  I  may  so  say,  mathe- 
matically demonstrable ;  and  which  I  have  been 
always  so  ])erfectly  convinced  of  that  I  have  a  con- 
tempt for  nothing  so  much  as  for  gold."  Adams  now 
began  a  lonjj  discourse  :  but  as  most  which  he  said 
occurs  among  many  authors  who  have  treated  this 
subject,  I  shall  omit  inserting  it.  During  its  con- 
tinuance Joseph  and  P'anny  retired  to  rest,  and  the 
host  likewise  left  the  room.  When  the  English 
parson  had  concluded,  the  Romish  resumed  the  dis- 
course, which  he  continued  with  great  bitterness  and 
invective ;  and  at  last  ended  by  desiring  Adams  to 
lend  him  eighteen-pence  to  pay  his  reckoning ; 
promising,  if  he  never  paid  him,  he  might  be  assured 
of  his  prayers.  The  good  man  answered  that  eighteen- 
pence  would  be  too  little  to  carry  him  any  very  long 
journey;  that  he  had  half  a  guinea  in  his  pocket, 
which  he  would  divide  with  him.  He  then  fell  to 
searching  his  pockets,  but  could  find  no  money  ;  for 
indeed  the  company  with  whom  he  dined  had  passed 
one  jest  upon  him  which  we  did  not  then  enumerate, 
and  had  picked  his  pocket  of  all  that  treasure  which 
he  had  so  ostentatiously  produced. 

"  Bless  me  !  "  cried  Adams,  "  I  have  certainly  lost 
it ;  I  can  never  have  spent  it.  Sir,  as  I  am  a  Chris- 
tian, I  had  a  whole  half-guinea  in  my  pocket  this 
morning,  and  have  not  now  a  single  halfpenny  of  it 
left.  Sure  the  devil  must  have  taken  it  from  me  ! ""  — 
"  Sir,'""  answered  the  priest,  smiling,  "you  need  make  no 
excuses  ;  if  you  are  not  willing  to  lend  me  the  money, 
I  am  contented."  —  "  Sir,"  cries  Adams,  "  if  I  had 
the  greatest  sum  in  the  world  —  aye,  if  I  had  ten 

[130] 


THE    PENNILESS    PRIEST 

pounds  about  me  —  I  would  bestow  it  all  to  rescue 
any  Christian  from  distress.  I  am  more  vexed  at 
my  loss  on  your  account  than  my  own.  Was  ever 
anything  so  unlucky  ?  Because  I  have  no  money  in 
my  pocket  I  shall  be  suspected  to  be  no  Christian." 
—  "I  am  more  unlucky,"  quoth  the  other,  "  if  you 
are  as  generous  as  you  say  ;  for  really  a  cro\vTi  would 
have  made  me  happy,  and  conveyed  me  in  plenty  to 
the  place  I  am  going,  which  is  not  above  twenty 
miles  off,  and  where  I  can  arrive  by  to-morrow  night. 
I  assure  you  I  am  not  accustomed  to  travel  penny- 
less.  I  am  but  just  arrived  in  England ;  and  we 
were  forced  by  a  storm  in  our  passage  to  throw  all 
we  had  overboard.  I  don't  suspect  but  this  fellow 
will  take  my  word  for  the  trifle  I  owe  him  ;  but  I 
hate  to  appear  so  mean  as  to  confess  myself  without 
a  shilling  to  such  people  ;  for  these,  and  indeed  too 
many  others,  know  little  difference  in  their  estima- 
tion between  a  beggar  and  a  thief"  However,  he 
thought  he  should  deal  better  with  the  host  that 
evening  than  the  next  morning :  he  therefore  resolved 
to  set  out  innnediately,  notwithstanding  the  dark- 
ness ;  and  accordingly,  as  soon  as  the  host  returned, 
he  communicated  to  him  the  situation  of  his  affairs  ; 
upon  which  the  host,  scratching  his  head,  answered, 
"  Why,  I  do  not  know,  master  ;  if  it  be  so,  and  you 
have  no  money,  I  nmst  trust,  I  think,  though  I  had 
rather  always  have  ready  money  if  I  could;  but, 
marry,  you  look  like  so  honest  a  gentleman  that  I 
don't  fear  your  paying  me  if  it  was  twenty  times  as 
much."  The  priest  made  no  reply,  but,  taking  leave 
of  him  and  Adams  as  fast  as  he  could,   not  without 

[  131  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

confusion,  and  perhaps  with  some  distrust  of  Adams''s 
sincerity,  departed. 

He  was  no  sooner  gone  than  the  host  fell  a-shaking 
his  head,  and  declared,  if  he  had  suspected  the  fellow 
had  no  money,  he  would  not  have  drawn  him  a  single 
drop  of  drink,  saying  he  despaired  of  ever  seeing  his 
face  again,  for  that  he  looked  like  a  confounded 
rogue.  "  Rabbit  the  fellow,"  cries  he,  "  I  thought, 
by  his  talking  so  much  about  riches,  that  he  had  a 
hundred  pounds  at  least  in  his  pocket."  Adams  chid 
him  for  his  suspicions,  which,  he  said,  were  not  be- 
coming a  Christian  ;  and  then,  without  reflecting  on 
his  loss,  or  considering  how  he  himself  should  depart 
in  the  morning,  he  retired  to  a  very  homely  bed,  as 
his  companions  had  before ;  however,  health  and 
fatigue  gave  them  a  sweeter  repose  than  is  often  in 
the  power  of  velvet  and  down  to  bestow. 


[  132  ] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

CONTAINING  AS  SURPRIZING  AND  BLOODY  ADVENTURES  AS 
CAN  BE  FOUND  IN  THIS  OR  PERHAPS  ANY  OTHER 
AUTHENTIC    HISTORY. 

IT  was  almost  morning  when  Joseph  Andrews, 
whose  eyes  the  thoughts  of  his  dear  Fanny  had 
opened,  as  he  lay  fondly  meditating  on  that 
lovely  creature,  heard  a  violent  knocking  at  the 
door  over  which  he  lay.  He  presently  jumped  out 
of  bed,  and,  opening  the  window,  was  asked  if  there 
were  no  travellers  in  the  house  ?  and  presently,  by 
another  voice,  if  two  men  and  a  woman  had  not  taken 
up  there  their  lodging  that  night  ?  Though  he  knew 
not  the  voices,  he  began  to  entertain  a  suspicion  of 
the  truth  —  for  indeed  he  had  received  some  infor- 
mation from  one  of  the  servants  of  the  squire's  house 
of  his  design  —  and  answered  in  the  negative.  One 
of  the  servants,  who  knew  the  host  well,  called  out  to 
him  by  his  name  just  as  he  had  opened  another  win- 
dow, and  asked  him  the  same  question ;  to  which  he 
answered  in  the  affirmative.  O  ho !  said  another, 
have  we  found  you  ?  and  ordered  the  host  to  come 
down  and  open  his  door.  Fanny,  who  was  as  wake- 
ful as  Joseph,  no  sooner  heard  all  this  than  she 
leaped  from  her  bed,  and,  hastily  putting  on  her 
gown    and    petticoats,  ran    as    fast  as    possible  to 

[133] 


JOSEPH    AxNDREWS 

Joseph''s  room,  who  then  was  ahnost  drest.  He 
immediately  let  her  in,  and,  embracing  her  with  the 
most  passionate  tenderness,  bid  her  fear  nothing,  for 
he  would  die  in  her  defence.  *'  Is  that  a  reason 
why  I  should  not  fear,"  says  she,  *'  when  I  should 
lose  what  is  dearer  to  me  than  the  whole  world  ?  " 
Joseph,  then  kissing  her  hand,  said,  "  He  could  almost 
thank  the  occasion  which  had  extorted  from  her  a 
tenderness  she  would  never  indulge  him  with  before." 
He  then  ran  and  waked  his  bedfellow  Adams,  who 
was  yet  fast  asleep,  notwithstanding  many  calls  from 
Joseph  ;  but  was  no  sooner  made  sensible  of  their 
danger  than  he  leaped  from  his  bed,  without  consid- 
ering the  pi'esence  of  Fanny,  who  hastily  turned  her 
face  from  him,  and  enjoyed  a  double  benefit  from  the 
dark,  which,  as  it  would  have  prevented  any  offence, 
to  an  innocence  less  pure,  or  a  modesty  less  delicate, 
so  it  concealed  even  those  blushes  which  were  raised 
in  her. 

Adams  had  soon  put  on  all  his  clothes  but  his 
breeches,  which,  in  the  hui'ry,  he  forgot ;  however, 
they  were  pretty  well  supplied  by  the  length  of 
his  other  garments  ;  and  now,  the  house-door  be- 
ing opened,  the  captain,  the  poet,  the  player,  and 
three  servants  came  in.  The  captain  told  the  host 
that  two  fellows,  who  were  in  his  house,  had  run  away 
with  a  young  woman,  and  desired  to  know  in  which 
room  she  lay.  The  host,  who  presently  believed 
the  story,  directed  them,  and  instantly  the  captain 
and  poet,  justling  one  another,  ran  up.  The  poet, 
who  was  the  nimblest,  entering  the  chamber  first, 
searched  the  bed,  and  every  other  part,  but  to  no 

[134  J 


STRANGE    ADVENTURES 

purpose  ;  the  bird  was  flown,  as  the  impatient  reader, 
who  might  otherwise  have  been  in  pain  for  her,  was 
before  advertised.  They  then  entjuired  where  the 
men  lay,  and  were  approaching  the  chamber,  when 
Joseph  roared  out,  in  a  loud  voice,  that  he  would 
shoot  the  Hi-st  man  who  offered  to  attack  the  door. 
The  captain  enquired  what  fire-arms  they  had  ;  to 
which  the  host  answered,  he  believed  they  had  none ; 
nay,  he  was  almost  convinced  of  it,  for  he  had  heard 
one  ask  the  other  in  the  evening  what  they  should  have 
done  if  they  had  been  overtaken,  wlien  they  had  no 
arms  ;  to  which  the  other  answered,  they  would  have 
defended  themselves  with  their  sticks  as  long  as  they 
were  able,  and  God  would  assist  a  just  cause.  This 
satisfied  the  captain,  but  not  the  poet,  who  prudently 
retreated  downstairs,  saying,  it  was  his  business  to 
record  great  actions,  and  not  to  do  them.  The  captain 
was  no  sooner  well  satisfied  that  there  were  no  fire-arms 
than,  bidding  defiance  to  gunpowder,  and  swearing  he 
loved  the  smell  of  it,  he  ordered  the  servants  to 
follow  him,  and,  marching  boldly  up,  immediately 
attempted  to  force  the  door,  which  the  servants  soon 
helped  him  to  accomplish.  When  it  was  opened, 
they  discovered  the  enemy  drawn  up  three  deep ; 
Adams  in  the  front,  and  Fainiy  in  the  rear.  The 
captain  told  Adams  that  if  they  would  go  all  back 
to  the  house  again  they  should  be  civilly  treated  ; 
but  unless  they  consented  he  had  orders  to  carry  the 
young  lady  with  him,  whom  there  was  great  reason  to 
believe  they  had  stolen  from  her  parents  ;  for,  notwith- 
standing her  disguise,  her  air,  which  she  could  not 
conceal,  sufficiently  discovered  her  birth  to  be  infi- 

[135] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

nitely  superior  to  theirs.  Fanny,  bursting  into  tears, 
solennily  assured  Inni  he  was  mistaken  ;  that  she  was 
a  j)oc)r  helpless  foundling,  and  had  no  relation  in  the 
world  which  she  knew  of;  and,  throwing  herself  on 
her  knees,  begged  that  he  would  not  attempt  to  take 
her  from  her  friends,  who,  she  was  convinced,  would 
die  before  they  would  lose  her;  which  Adams  con- 
firmed with  words  not  far  from  amounting  to  an  oath. 
The  captain  swore  he  had  no  leisure  to  talk,  and, 
bidding  them  thank  themselves  for  what  happened, 
he  ordered  the  servants  to  foil  on,  at  the  same  time 
endeavouring  to  pass  by  Adams,  in  order  to  lay  hold 
on  Fanny  ;  but  the  parson,  interrupting  him,  received 
a  blow  from  one  of  them,  which,  without  considering 
whence  it  came,  he  returned  to  the  captain,  and 
gave  him  so  dexterous  a  knock  in  that  part  of  the 
stomach  which  is  vulgarly  called  the  pit,  that  he 
staggered  some  paces  backwards.  The  captain,  who 
was  not  accustomed  to  this  kind  of  play,  and  who 
wisely  apprehended  the  consequence  of  such  another 
blow,  two  of  them  seeming  to  him  equal  to  a  thrust 
through  the  body,  drew  forth  his  hanger,  as  Adams 
approached  him,  and  was  levelling  a  blow  at 
his  head,  which  would  probably  have  silenced  the 
preacher  for  ever,  had  not  Joseph  in  that  instant 
lifted  up  a  certain  huge  stone  pot  of  the  chamber 
with  one  hand,  which  six  beaus  could  not  have  lifted 
with  both,  and  discharged  it,  together  with  the 
contents,  full  in  the  captain's  face.  The  uplifted 
hanger  dropped  from  his  hand,  and  he  fell  prostrated 
on  the  floor  with  a  lumpish  noise,  and  his  halfpence 
rattled  in  his  pocket ;  the  red  liquor  which  his  veins 

[136] 


JOSEPH    OVERCOME 

contained,  and  the  white  hquor  which  the  pot  con- 
tained, ran  in  one  stream  down  his  face  and  his  clothes. 
Nor  had  Adams  quite  escaped,  some  of  the  water 
having  in  its  passage  shed  its  honours  on  his  head, 
and  began  to  trickle  down  the  wrinkles  or  rather  fur- 
rows of  his  cheeks,  when  one  of  the  servants,  snatching 
a  mop  out  of  a  pail  of  water,  which  had  already  done 
its  duty  in  washing  the  house,  pushed  it  in  the 
parson's  face ;  yet  could  not  he  bear  him  down,  for 
the  parson,  wresting  the  mop  from  the  fellow  with 
one  hand,  with  the  other  brought  his  enemy  as  low 
as  the  earth,  having  given  him  a  stroke  over  that  part 
of  the  face  where,  in  some  men  of  pleasure,  the  natural 
and  artificial  noses  are  conjoined. 

Hitherto,  Fortune  seemed  to  incline  the  victory 
on  the  travellers'  side,  when,  according  to  her  custom, 
she  began  to  show  the  fickleness  of  her  disposition  ; 
for  now  the  host,  entering  the  field,  or  rather  cham- 
ber of  battle,  flew  directly  at  Joseph,  and,  darting  his 
head  into  his  stomach  (for  he  was  a  stout  fellow  and 
an  expert  boxer),  almost  staggered  him  :  but  Joseph, 
stepping  one  leg  back,  did  with  his  left  hand  so 
chuck  him  under  the  chin  that  he  reeled.  The  youth 
was  pursuing  his  blow  with  his  right  hand  when  he 
received  from  one  of  the  servants  such  a  stroke  with 
a  cudgel  on  his  temples,  that  it  instantly  deprived 
him  of  sense,  and  he  measured  his  length  on  the 
ground. 

Fanny  rent  the  air  with  her  cries,  and  Adams  was 
coming  to  the  assistance  of  Joseph  ;  but  the  two 
serving-men  and  the  host  now  fell  on  him,  and  soon 
subdued  him,  though  he  fought  like  a  madman,  and 

[137] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

looked  so  black  with  the  impressions  he  liad  received 
froin  the  mop,  tliat  Don  Quixote  would  certainly  have 
taken  him  for  an  inchanted  Moor.  But  now  follows 
the  most  tragical  part ;  for  the  captain  was  risen 
again,  and,  seeing  Jose})h  on  the  floor,  and  Adams 
secured,  he  instantly  laid  hold  on  P'anny,  and,  with 
the  assistance  of  the  poet  and  player,  who,  hearing 
the  battle  was  over,  were  now  come  up,  dragged 
her,  crying  and  tearing  her  hair,  from  the  sight 
of  her  Joseph,  and,  with  a  perfect  deafness  to  all  her 
entreaties,  carried  her  down-stairs  by  violence,  and 
fastened  her  on  the  players  horse  ;  and  the  captain, 
mounting  his  own,  and  leading  that  on  which  this 
poor  miserable  wretch  was,  departed,  without  any 
more  consideration  of  her  cries  than  a  butcher  hath 
of  those  of  a  lamb  ;  for  indeed  his  tlioughts  were 
entertained  only  with  the  degree  of  favour  which  he 
promised  himself  from  the  squire  on  the  success  of 
this  adventure. 

The  servants,  who  were  ordered  to  secure  Adams 
and  Joseph  as  safe  as  possible,  that  the  squire  might 
receive  no  interruption  to  his  design  on  poor  Fanny, 
innnediately,  by  the  poet's  advice,  tied  Adams  to  one 
of  the  bed-posts,  as  they  did  Joseph  on  the  other 
side,  as  soon  as  they  could  bring  him  to  himself;  and 
then,  leaving  them  together,  back  to  back,  and  desir- 
ing the  host  not  to  set  them  at  liberty,  nor  to  go 
near  them,  till  he  had  further  orders,  they  departed 
towards  their  master;  but  happened  to  take  a  dif- 
ferent road  from  that  which  the  captain  had  fallen 
into. 

[138] 


CHAPTER   TEN 

A  DISCOURSE  BETWEEN  THE  POET  AND  THE  PLAYER  ;  OF 
NO  OTHER  USE  IN  THIS  HISTORY  BUT  TO  DIVERT  THE 
READER. 

BEFORE  we  proceed  any  farther  in  this 
trat^edy  we  shall  leave  Mr.  Joseph  and 
Mr.  Adams  to  themselves,  and  imitate 
the  wise  conductors  of  the  stai^e,  who  in 
the  midst:  of  a  grave  action  entertain  you  with  some 
excellent  piece  of  satire  or  humour  called  a  dance. 
Which  piece,  indeed,  is  therefore  danced,  and  not 
spoke,  as  it  is  delivered  to  the  audience  by  persons 
whose  thinking  faculty  is  by  most  people  held  to  lie 
in  their  heels ;  and  to  whom,  as  well  as  heroes,  who 
think  with  their  hands.  Nature  hath  only  given  heads 
for  the  sake  of  conformity,  and  as  they  are  of  use  in 
dancing,  to  hang  their  hats  on. 

The  poet,  addressing  the  player,  proceeded  thus, 
"  As  I  was  saying "  (for  they  had  been  at  this  dis- 
course all  the  time  of  the  engagement  above-stairs), 
"  the  reason  you  have  no  good  new  plays  is  evident ; 
it  is  from  your  discouragement  of  authors.  Gentle- 
men will  not  write,  sir,  they  will  not  write,  without 
the  expectation  of  fame  or  profit,  or  perhaps  both. 
Plays  are  like  trees,  which  will  not  grow  without 
nourishment ;  but  like  mushrooms,  they  shoot  up 
spontaneously,  as  it  were,  in  a  rich  soil.     The  muses, 

[139  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

like  vines,  may  be  pruned,  but  not  with  a  hatchet. 
The  town,  hke  a  peevish  child,  knows  not  what  it 
desires,  and  is  always  best  pleased  with  a  rattle. 
A  farce- writer  hath  indeed  some  chance  for  success  : 
but  they  have  lost  all  taste  for  the  sublime.  Though 
I  believe  one  reason  of  their  depravit}'  is  the  badness 
of  the  actors.  If  a  man  writes  like  an  angel,  sir, 
those  fellows  know  not  how  to  give  a  sentiment 
utterance."  —  "  Not  so  fast,"  says  the  player :  "  the 
modern  actors  are  as  good  at  least  as  their  authors, 
nay,  they  come  nearer  their  illustrious  predecessors ; 
and  I  expect  a  Booth  on  the  stage  again,  sooner  than 
a  Shakespear  or  an  Otway ;  and  indeed  I  may  turn 
your  observation  against  you,  and  with  truth  say, 
that  the  reason  no  authors  are  encouraged  is  because 
we  have  no  good  new  plays."  —  "  I  have  not  affirmed 
the  contrary,"  said  the  poet ;  "  but  I  am  surprized 
you  grow  so  warm  ;  you  cannot  imagine  yourself 
interested  in  this  dispute;  I  hope  you  have  a  better 
opinion  of  my  taste  than  to  apprehend  I  squinted  at 
yourself.  No,  sir,  if  we  had  six  such  actors  as  you, 
we  should  soon  rival  the  Bettertons  and  Sandfords 
of  former  times  ;  for,  without  a  compliment  to  you, 
I  think  it  impossible  for  any  one  to  have  excelled 
you  in  most  of  your  parts.  Nay,  it  is  solemn  truth, 
and  I  have  heard  many,  and  all  great  j udges,  express 
as  much  ;  and,  you  will  pardon  me  if  I  tell  you,  I 
think  every  time  I  have  seen  you  lately  you  have 
constantly  acquired  some  new  excellence,  like  a  snow- 
ball. You  have  deceived  me  in  my  estimation  of 
perfection,  and  have  outdone  what  I  thought  inimi- 
table." — "  Vou  are    as  little   interested,"   answered 

[  140  1 


A    DISCOURSE 

the  player,  "  in  what  I  have  said  of  other  poets  ;  for 
d — n  me  if  there  are  not  many  strokes,  ay,  whole 
scenes,   in  your  last  tragedy,    which   at  least  equal 
Shakespear.      There   is   a   delicacy   of  sentiment,  a 
dignity  of  expression  in  it,  which  I   will  own  many 
of  our  gentlemen  did  not  do  adequate  justice  to.    To 
confess  tlie  truth,  they  are  bad  enough,  and  I  pity 
an   author    who    is    present    at   the    murder   of  his 
works/'  —  "  Nay,  it  is  but  seldom  that  it  can  hap- 
pen," returned  the  poet ;  "  the  woiks  of  most  modern 
authors,   like    dead-born   children,   cannot    be    mur- 
dered.    It  is  such  wretched  half-begotten,  half-writ, 
lifeless,  spiritless,  low,  grovelling  stuff,  that  I  almost 
pity  the  actor  who  is  obliged  to  get  it  by  heart, 
which  must  be  almost  as   difficult  to  remember  as 
words  in  a  language   you  don't  understand."  —  "I 
am  sure,"   said  the    player,  "  if  the  sentences  have 
little  meaning  when  they  are  writ,  when  they  are 
spoken  they  have  less.     I  know  scarce  one  who  ever 
lays  an   emphasis  right,  and  much  less  adapts  his 
action  to  his  character.     I  have  seen  a  tender  lover 
in  an  attitude  of  fighting  with  his  mistress,  and  a 
brave  hero  suing  to  his  enemy  with  his  sword  in  his 
hand.     I  don't  care  to  abuse  my  profession,  but  rot 
me  if  in  my  heart  I  am  not  inclined  to  the  poet's 
side."  —  "  It  is  rather  generous  in  you  than  just,"  said 
the  poet  ;  "  and,  though  I  hate  to  speak  ill  of  any 
person's  production  —  nay,  I  never  do  it,  nor  will  — 
but  yet,  to  do  justice  to  the  actors,  what  could  Booth 
or  Betterton   have  made  of  such  horrible  stuff  as 
Fenton's    Mariamne,   Frowd's    Philotas,  or   Mallet's 
Eurydice ;  or  those  low,  dirty,  last-dying-speeches, 

[Ul] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

which  a  fellow  in  the  city  of  Wapping,  your  Dillo 
or  Lillo,  what  was  his  name,  called  tragedies?"  — 
"  Very  well,"  says  the  player ;  "  and  pray  what  do 
you  think  of  such  fellows  as  Quin  and  Delane,or  that 
face-making  puppy  young  Cibber,  that  ill-looked 
dog  Macklin,  or  that  saucy  slut  Mrs.  Clive?  What 
work  would  they  make  with  your  Shakespears,  Ot- 
ways,  and  Lees  ?  How  would  those  harmonious 
lines  of  the  last  come  from  their  tongues?  — 

' No  more  ;  for  I  disdain 


All  pomp  when  thou  art  by  :  fai'be  the  noise 
Of  kings  and  crowns  from  iis,  whose  gentle  Bouls 
Our  kinder  fates  have  steer'd  another  way. 
Free  as  the  forest  birds  we  *Jl  pair  together. 
Without  rememb'ring  who  our  fathers  were  : 
Fly  to  the  arbors,  grots,  and  tlow'ry  meads ; 
There  in  soft  murmurs  interchange  our  souls ; 
Together  drink  the  crystal  of  the  stream. 
Or  taste  the  yellow  fruit  which  autumn  yields, 
And,  when  the  golden  evening  calls  us  home. 
Wing  to  our  downy  nests,  and  sleep  till  morn.' 

Or  how  would  this  disdain  of  Otway  — 

'  Who  'd  be  that  foolish  sordid  thing  call  'd  man  ? ' " 

"  Hold  !  hold  !  hold  ! "  said  the  poet :  "  Do  repeat 
that  tender  speech  in  the  third  act  of  my  play  which 
you  made  such  a  figure  in." —  "  I  would  willingly," 
said  the  player,  "  but  I  have  forgot  it."  —  "  Ay,  you 
was  not  quite  perfect  in  it  when  you  played  it,"  cries 
the  poet,  "  or  you  would  have  had  such  an  applause 
as  was  never  given  on  the  stage ;  an  applause  I  was 
extremely  concerned  for  your  losing/  —  "  Sure,"  says 
the  player,  "if  I  remember,  that  was  hissed  more 
than  any  passage  in  the  whole  play."  —  "  Ay,  your 

[  142  J 


THE    POET    AND    THE    PLAYER 

speaking  it  was  hissed,"  said  the  poet.  —  "  My  speak- 
ing it !  "  said  the  player.  —  "I  mean  your  not 
speaking  it,"  said  the  poet.  "  You  was  out,  and 
then  they  hissed."  —  "  They  hissed,  and  tlien  I  was 
out,  if  I  remember,"  answered  the  player  ;  "  and  I 
must  say  this  for  myself,  that  the  whole  audience 
allowed  I  did  your  part  justice  ;  so  don't  lay  the 
damnation  of  your  play  to  my  account."  —  "I  don't 
know  what  you  mean  by  danniation,"  replied  the 
poet.  — "  Why,  you  know  it  was  acted  but  one 
night,"  cried  the  player.  — "  No,"  said  the  poet, 
"  you  and  the  whole  town  were  enemies  ;  the  pit 
were  all  my  enemies,  fellows  that  would  cut  my 
throat,  if  the  fear  of  hanging  did  not  restrain  them. 
All  taylors,  sir,  all  taylors."  — "  ^Vhy  should  the 
taylors  be  so  angry  with  you  ? "  cries  the  player. 
"  I  suppose  you  don't  employ  so  many  in  making  your 
clothes." —  "  I  admit  your  jest,"  answered  the  poet ; 
"but  you  remember  the  affair  as  well  as  myself; 
you  know  there  was  a  party  in  the  pit  and  upper 
gallery  that  would  not  suffer  it  to  be  given  out 
again  ;  though  much,  ay  infinitely,  the  majority,  all 
the  boxes  in  particular,  were  desirous  of  it ;  nay, 
most  of  the  ladies  swore  they  never  would  come  to 
the  house  till  it  was  acted  again.  Indeed,  I  must 
own  their  policy  was  good  in  not  letting  it  be 
given  out  a  second  time  :  for  the  rascals  knew  if  it 
had  gone  a  second  night  it  would  have  run  fifty  ; 
for  if  ever  there  was  distress  in  a  tragedy  —  I  am 
not  fond  of  my  own  performance  ;  but  if  I  should 

tell  you  what  the  best  judges  said  of  it Nor 

was  it  entirely  owing  to  my  enemies  neither  that  it 

[143] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

(lid  not  .succeed  on  the  stage  as  well  as  it  hath 
since  among  the  polite  readers  ;  for  you  can''t  say 
it  had  justice  done  it  by  the  performers."  —  "I 
think,"  answered  the  player,  "  the  performers  did  the 
distress  of  it  justice  ;  for  I  am  sure  we  were  in  dis- 
tress enough,  who  were  pelted  with  oranges  all  the 
last  act :  we  all  imagined  it  would  have  been  the  last 
act  of  our  lives." 

The  poet,  whose  fury  was  now  raised,  had  just 
attempted  to  answer  when  they  were  interrupted, 
and  an  end  put  to  their  discourse,  by  an  accident, 
which  if  the  reader  is  impatient  to  know,  he  must 
skip  over  the  next  chapter,  which  is  a  sort  of  coun- 
terpart to  this,  and  contains  some  of  the  best  and 
gravest  matters  in  the  whole  book,  being  a  discourse 
between  parson  Abraham  Adams  and  Mr  Joseph 
Andrews. 


[144] 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

CONTAINING  THE  EXHORTATIONS  OF  PARSON  ADAMS  TO 
HIS  FRIEND  IN  AFFLICTION  ;  CALCULATED  FOR  THE 
INSTRUCTION    AND     IMPROVEMENT    OF    THE    READER. 

JOSEPH  no  sooner  came  perfectly  to  himself 
than,  perceiving  his  mistress  gone,  he  bewailed 
her  loss  with  groans  which  would  have  pierced 
any  heart  but  those  which  are  possessed  bv 
some  people,  and  are  made  of  a  certain  composition 
not  unlike  flint  in  its  hardness  and  other  properties  ; 
for  vou  may  strike  fire  from  them,  which  will  dart 
through  the  eyes,  but  they  can  never  distil  one  drop 
of  water  the  same  wa}'.  His  own,  poor  youth  !  was 
of  a  softer  composition ;  and  at  those  words,  "  O  my 
dear  Fanny !  O  my  love !  shall  I  never,  never  see 
thee  more  ? "  his  eyes  overflowed  with  tears,  which 
would  have  become  any  but  a  hero.  In  a  word,  liis 
despair  was  more  easy  to  be  conceived  than  related. 

Mr.  Adams,  after  many  groans,  sitting  with  his 
back  to  Joseph,  began  thus  in  a  sorrowful  tone : 
"  You  cannot  imagine,  my  good  child,  that  I  entirely 
blame  these  first  agonies  of  your  grief;  for,  when 
misfortunes  attack  us  by  surprize,  it  must  require 
infinitely  more  learning  than  you  are  master  of  to 
resist  them  ;  but  it  is  the  business  of  a  man  and  a 
Christian  to  summon  Reason  as  quickly  as  he  can  to 
vol,.  II.— 10  [  145  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

his  aid;  and  she  will  presently  teach  him  patience 
and  submission.  Be  comforted,  therefore,  child ; 
I  say  be  comforted.  It  is  true,  you  have  lost  the 
prettiest,  kindest,  loveliest,  sweetest  young  woman, 
one  with  whom  you  might  have  expected  to  have 
lived  in  happiness,  virtue,  and  innocence  ;  by  whom 
you  might  have  piomised  yourself  many  little  dar- 
lings, who  would  liave  been  the  delight  of  your 
youth  and  the  comfort  of  your  age.  You  have  not 
only  lost  her,  but  have  reason  to  fear  the  utmost 
violence  which  lust  and  power  can  inflict  upon  her. 
Now,  indeed,  you  may  easily  raise  ideas  of  horror, 
which  might  drive  you  to  despair."  —  "O  I  shall  run 
mad  !  "cries  Joseph.  ''  O  that  I  could  but  command 
my  hands  to  tear  my  eyes  out  and  my  flesh  oft' !  "  — 
"  If  you  would  use  them  to  such  purposes,  I  am  glad 
you  can^'t,''"'  answered  Adams.  "  I  have  stated  your 
misfortune  as  strong  as  I  possibly  can  ;  but,  on  the 
other  side,  you  are  to  consider  you  are  a  Christian, 
that  no  accident  happens  to  us  without  the  Divine 
permission,  and  that  it  is  the  duty  of  a  man,  and  a 
Christian,  to  submit.  We  did  not  make  ourselves ; 
but  the  same  power  which  made  us  rules  over  us, 
and  we  are  absolutely  at  his  disposal ;  he  may  do 
with  us  what  he  pleases,  nor  have  we  any  right  to 
complain.  A  second  reason  against  our  complaint 
is  our  ignorance  ;  for,  as  we  know  not  future  events, 
so  neither  can  we  tell  to  what  purpose  any  accident 
tends;  and  that  which  at  first  threatens  us  with 
evil  may  in  the  end  produce  our  good.  I  should 
indeed  have  said  our  ignorance  is  twofold  (but  I 
have    not    at    present    time    to    divide    properly), 

[  146  j 


JOSEPH    IN    AFFLICTION 

for,  as  we  kjiow  not  to  what  purpose  any  event  is 
ultimately  directed,  so  neither  can  we  affirm  from 
what  cause  it  originally  sprung.  Vou  are  a  man, 
and  consequently  a  siinier ;  and  this  may  be  a 
punishment  to  you  for  your  sins :  indeed  in  this 
sense  it  niav  be  esteemed  as  a  good,  yea,  as  the 
greatest  good,  which  satisfies  the  anger  of  Heaven, 
and  averts  that  wrath  which  cannot  continue  with- 
out our  destruction.  Thirdly,  our  ini potency  of 
relieving  ourselves  demonstrates  the  folly  and  ab- 
surdity of  our  complaints :  for  whom  do  we  resist, 
or  against  whom  do  we  complain,  but  a  power  from 
whose  shafts  no  armour  can  guard  us,  no  speed  can 
fly  ?  —  a  power  which  leaves  us  no  hope  but  in  sub- 
mission." "  O  sir  ! ""  cried  Joseph,  "  all  this  is  very 
true,  and  verv  fine,  and  I  could  hear  you  all  day 
if  I  was  not  so  grieved  at  heart  as  now  I  am."'^  — 
"  Would  vou  take  physic,*"  says  Adams,  "  when  you 
are  well,  and  refuse  it  when  you  are  sick  ?  Is  not 
comfort  to  be  administered  to  the  afflicted,  and  not 
to  those  who  rejoice  or  those  who  are  at  ease .''  " 
"  O  !  you  have  not  spoken  one  word  of  comfort  to 
me  yet  !  "  returned  Joseph.  "  No  ! ""  cries  Adams  ; 
"  what  am  I  then  doing .''  what  can  I  say  to  comfort 
you  ? ""  *'  O  tell  me,"  cries  Joseph,  "  that  Fanny 
will  escape  back  to  my  arms,  that  they  shall  again 
enclose  that  lovely  creature,  with  all  her  sweetness, 
all  her  untainted  innocence  about  her  ! ""  "  Why, 
perhaps  you  may,"  cries  Adams,  "  but  I  can''t  promise 
you  what's  to  come.  You  must,  with  perfect  resig- 
nation, wait  the  event :  if  she  be  restored  to  you 
again,  it  is  your  duty  to  be  thankful,  and  so  it  is  if 

[  147  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

she  be  not.  Joseph,  if  you  are  wise  and  truly  know 
your  own  interest,  you  will  peaceably  and  quietly 
submit  to  all  the  dispensations  of  Providence,  being 
thoroughly  assured  that  all  the  misfortunes,  how 
great  soever,  wliich  happen  to  the  righteous,  happen 
to  them  for  their  own  good.  Nay,  it  is  not  your 
interest  only,  but  your  duty,  to  abstain  from  im- 
moderate grief;  which  if  you  indulge,  you  are  not 
worthy  the  name  of  a  Christian."  He  spoke  these 
last  words  with  an  accent  a  little  severer  than  usual  ; 
upon  which  Joseph  begged  him  not  to  be  angiy, 
saying,  he  mistook  him  if  he  tliought  he  denied  it 
was  his  duty,  for  he  had  known  that  long  ago. 
"  What  signifies  knowing  your  duty,  if  you  do  not 
perform  it.?"  answered  Adams.  "Your  knowledge 
increases  your  guilt.  O  Joseph  !  I  never  thought 
you  had  this  stubbornness  in  your  mind."  Joseph 
replied,  "  He  fancied  he  misunderstood  him  ;  which 
I  assure'  you,"  says  he,  "  you  do,  if  you  imagine  I 
endeavour  to  grieve  ;  upon  my  soul  I  don't."  Adams 
rebuked  him  for  swearing,  and  then  proceeded  to 
enlarge  on  the  folly  of  grief,  telling  him,  all  the  wise 
men  and  philosophers,  even  among  the  heathens, 
had  written  against  it,  quoting  several  passages 
from  Seneca,  and  the  Consolation,  which,  though  it 
was  not  Cicero"'s,  was,  he  said,  as  good  almost  as  any 
of  his  works;  and  concluded  all  by  hinting  that 
immoderate  grief  in  this  case  might  incense  that 
power  which  alone  could  restore  him  his  Fanny. 
This  reason,  or  indeed  rather  the  idea  which  it  raised 
of  the  restoration  of  his  mistress,  had  more  effect 
than  all  which  the  parson  had  said  before,  and  for  a 

[148] 


JOSEPH^S    SOLILOQUY 

moment  abated  his  agonies  ;  but,  when  his  fears 
sufficiently  set  before  his  eyes  the  danger  that  poor 
creature  was  in,  his  grief  returned  again  with  re- 
peated violence,  nor  could  Adams  in  the  least  asswage 
it ;  thouo-h  it  may  be  doubted  in  his  behalf  whether 
Socrates  himself  could  have  prevailed  any  better. 

They  remained  some  time  in  silence,  and  groans 
and  sighs  issued  from  them  both  ;  at  length  Joseph 
burst  out  into  the  following  soliloquy  :  — 

'*  Yes,  I  will  bear  my  sorrows  like  a  man, 
But  I  must  also  feel  them  as  a  man. 
I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 
And  were  most  dear  to  me." 

Adams  asked  him  what  stuff  that  was  he  repeated  .? 
To  which  he  answered,  they  were  some  lines  he  had 
gotten  by  heart  out  of  a  play.  "  Ay,  there  is 
nothing  but  heathenism  to  be  learned  from  plays," 
replied  he.  "  I  never  heard  of  any  plays  fit  for 
a  Christian  to  read,  but  Cato  and  the  Conscious 
Lovers ;  and,  I  must  own,  in  the  latter  there  are 
some  things  almost  solemn  enough  for  a  sermon." 
But  we  shall  now  leave  them  a  little,  and  enquire 
after  the  subject  of  their  conversation. 


[149] 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

MORE    ADVENTURES,    WHICH     WE     HOPE     WILL     AS     MUCH 
PLEASE    AS    SURPRIZE    THE    READER. 

NEITHER  the  facetious  dialogue  which 
passed  between  the  poet  and  the  player, 
nor  the  grave  and  truly  solemn  dis- 
course of  Mi%  Adams,  will,  we  conceive, 
make  the  reader  sufficient  amends  for  the  anxiety 
which  he  must  have  felt  on  the  account  of  poor 
Fanny,  whom  we  left  in  so  deplorable  a  condition. 
We  shall  therefore  now  proceed  to  the  relation  of 
what  happened  to  that  beautiful  and  innocent 
virgin,  after  she  fell  into  the  wicked  hands  of  the 
captain. 

The  man  of  war,  having  conveyed  his  charming 
prize  out  of  the  inn  a  little  before  day,  made  the 
utmost  expedition  in  his  power  towards  the  squire's 
house,  where  this  delicate  creature  was  to  be  offered 
up  a  sacrifice  to  the  lust  of  a  ravisher.  He  was  not 
only  deaf  to  all  her  bcwailings  and  entreaties  on  the 
road,  but  accosted  her  ears  with  impurities  which, 
having  been  never  before  accustomed  to  them,  she 
happily  for  herself  very  little  understood.  At  last 
he  changed  his  note,  and  attem})tcd  to  soothe  and 
mollify  her,  by  setting  forth  the  splendor  and  luxury 
which  would  be  her  fortune  with  a  man  who  would 
have    the    inclination,    and   power   too,  to  give   her 

[150] 


FANiNY    AND    HER    CAPTORS 

whatever  licr  utmost  wishes  could  desire ;  and  told 
her  he  doubted  not  but  she  would  soon  look  kinder 
on  him,  as  the  instrument  of  her  happiness,  and 
despise  that  pitiful  fellow  whom  her  i<^norance  only 
could  make  her  fond  of.  She  answered,  she  knew 
not  whom  he  meant ;  she  never  was  fond  of  any  piti- 
ful fellow.  "•'  Are  you  aifronted,  madam,"  says  he, 
"at  my  calling  him  so?  But  what  better  can  be 
said  of  one  in  a  livery,  notwithstanding  your  fond- 
ness for  hin)?"  She  returned,  that  she  did  not 
understand  him,  that  the  man  had  been  her  fellow- 
servant,  and  she  believed  was  as  honest  a  creature 
as  any  alive ;  l)ut  as  for  fondness  for  men  —  "I 
warrant  ye,"  cries  the  captain,  "  we  shall  find  means 
to  persuade  you  to  be  fond  ;  and  I  advise  you  to 
yield  to  gentle  ones,  for  you  may  be  assured  that 
it  is  not  in  your  power,  by  any  struggles  whatever, 
to  preserve  your  virginity  two  hours  longer.  It  will 
be  your  interest  to  consent ;  for  the  squire  will  be 
much  kinder  to  you  if  he  enjoys  you  willingly  than 
by  force."  At  which  words  she  began  to  call  aloud 
for  assistance  (for  it  was  now  open  day),  but,  finding 
none,  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  supplicated 
the  Divine  assistance  to  preserve  her  innocence.  The 
captain  told  her,  if  she  persisted  in  her  vociferation, 
he  would  find  a  means  of  stopping  her  mouth.  And 
now  the  poor  wretch,  perceiving  no  hopes  of  succour, 
aliandoned  herself  to  despair,  and,  sighing  out  the 
name  of  Joseph  !  Joseph  !  a  river  of  tears  ran  down 
her  lovely  cheeks,  and  wet  the  handkerchief  which 
covered  her  bosom.  A  horseman  now  appeared  in 
the  road,   upon    which   the  captain  threatened  her 

[151] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

violently  if  she  complained  ;  however,   the  moment 
they  approached  each  other  she  begged  him  with  the 
utmost  earnestness  to  relieve  a  distressed  creature 
who    was    in   the  hands  of  a  ravisher.     The   fellow 
stopt  at  those  words,  but  the  captain  assured  him  it 
was   his   wife,   and   that  he  was  carrying   her  home 
from  her  adulterer,  which  so  satisfied  the  fellow,  who 
was  an  old  one  (and  perhaps  a  married  one  too),  that 
he  wished  him  a  good  journey,  and  rode  on.     He 
was  no  sooner    past    than   the  captain   abused    her 
violently  for  breaking  his  commands,  and  threatened 
to  gagg  her,  when  two  more  horsemen,  armed  with 
pistols,  came  into  the  road  just  before  them.      She 
again  solicited  their  assistance,  and  the  captain  told 
the  same  story  as  before.     Upon   which  one  said  to 
the  other,  "  That 's  a  charming  wench,  Jack  ;  I  wish 
I  had    been   in   the   fellow's   place,  whoever  he   is,"" 
But  the  other,  instead  of  answering  him,  cried  out, 
"Zounds,  I  know  her;"  and  then,  turning  to  her, 
said,    "  Sure    you    are    not    Fanny    Goodwill  ? ""  — 
"  Indeed,  indeed,  I    am,"  she    cried.  —  "  O  John,  I 
know  you  now  —  Heaven  hath  sent  you  to  my  assist- 
ance, to  deliver  me  from  this  wicked  man,   who  is 
carrying  me  away  for  his  vile  purposes  —  O  for  God"'s 
sake    rescue    me   from    him  !  "     A     fierce    dialogue 
immediately  ensued  between  the  captain   and  these 
two  men,  who,  being  both  armed  with  pistols,  and  the 
chariot    which    they    attended    being    now    arrived, 
the  caj)tain  saw  both  force  and  stratagem  were  vain, 
and  endeavoured  to   make  his  escape,  in  which  how- 
ever he  could  not  succeed.     The  gentleman  who  rode 
in  the  chariot  ordered  it  to  stop,  and  with  an  air  of 

[  152  1 


THE    RESCUE 

authority  examined  into  the  merits  of  the  cause ;  of 
which  being  advertised  by  Fanny,  whose  credit  was 
confirmed  by  the  fellow  who  knew  her,  he  ordered 
the  captain,  who  was  all  bloody  from  his  encounter 
at  the  inn,  to  be  conveyed  as  a  prisoner  behind  the 
chariot,  and  very  gallantly  took  Fanny  into  it ;  for, 
to  say  the  truth,  this  gentleman  (who  was  no  other 
than  the  celebrated  Mr.  Peter  Pounce,  and  who  pre- 
ceded the  Lady  Booby  only  a  few  miles,  by  setting 
out  earlier  in  the  morning)  was  a  very  gallant  person, 
and  loved  a  pretty  girl  better  than  anything  besides 
his  own  money  or  the  money  of  other  people. 

The  chariot  now  proceeded  towards  the  inn,  which, 
as  Fanny  was  informed,  lay  in  their  way,  and  where 
it  arrived  at  that  very  time  while  the  poet  and  player 
were  disputing  below-stairs,  and  Adams  and  Joseph 
were  discoursing  back  to  back  above ;  just  at  that 
period  to  which  we  brought  them  both  in  the  two 
preceding  chapters  the  chariot  stopt  at  the  door,  and 
in  an  instant  Fanny,  leaping  from  it,  ran  up  to  her 
Joseph.  —  O  reader!  conceive  if  thou  canst  the  joy 
which  fired  the  breasts  of  these  lovers  on  this  meet- 
ing; and  if  thy  own  heart  doth  not  sympathetically 
assist  thee  in  this  conception,  I  pity  thee  sincerely 
from  my  own ;  for  let  the  hard-hearted  villain  know 
this,  that  there  is  a  pleasure  in  a  tender  sensation 
beyond  any  which  he  is  capable  of  tasting. 

Peter,  being  informed  by  Fanny  of  the  presence  of 
Adams,  stopt  to  see  him,  and  receive  his  homage ;  for, 
as  Peter  was  an  hypocrite,  a  sort  of  people  whom  Mr. 
Adams  never  saw  through,  the  one  paid  that  respect 
to  his  seeming  goodness  which  the  other  believed  to 

[  153  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

be  paid  to  his  riches ;  hence  Mr.  Adams  was  so 
much  his  favourite,  tliat  he  once  lent  him  four 
pounds  thirteen  shiUings  and  sixpence  to  prevent 
his  going  to  gaol,  on  no  greater  security  than  a  bond 
and  judgment,  which  probably  he  would  have  made 
no  use  of,  though  the  money  had  not  been  (as  it  was) 
paid  exactly  at  the  time. 

It  is  not  perhaps  easy  to  describe  the  figure  of 
Adams  ;  he  had  risen  in  such  a  hurry,  that  he  had 
on  neither  breeches,  garters,  nor  stockings  ;  nor  had 
he  taken  from  his  head  a  red  spotted  handkerchief, 
which  by  night  bound  his  wig,  turned  inside  out, 
around  his  head.  He  had  on  his  torn  cassock  and 
his  greatcoat ;  but,  as  the  remainder  of  his  cassock 
hung  down  below  his  greatcoat,  so  did  a  small  stripe 
of  white,  or  rather  whitish,  linen  appear  below  that ; 
to  which  we  may  add  the  several  colours  which  ap- 
peared on  his  face,  where  a  long  piss-burnt  beard 
served  to  retain  the  licjuor  of  the  stone-pot,  and  that 
of  a  blacker  hue  which  distilled  from  the  mop.  — 
This  figure,  which  Fanny  had  delivered  from  his 
captivity,  was  no  sooner  spied  by  Peter  than  it  dis- 
ordered the  composed  gravity  of  his  muscles ;  how- 
ever, he  advised  him  immediately  to  make  himself 
clean,  nor  would  accept  his  homage  in  that  pickle. 

The  poet  and  player  no  sooner  saw  the  captain  in 
captivity  than  they  began  to  consider  of  their  own 
safety,  of  which  flight  presented  itself  as  the  only 
means ;  they  therefore  both  of  them  mounted  the 
poet's  horse,  and  made  the  most  expeditious  retreat 
in    their    power. 

The  host,  who  well  knew  Mr.  Pounce  and  Lady 

[  154] 


THE    CAPTAIN'S    PUNISHMENT 

Booby's  livery,  was  not  a  little  surprized  at  this  change 
of  the  scene  ;  nor  was  his  confusion  much  helped  by 
his  wife,  who  was  now  just  risen,  and,  having  heard 
from  him  the  account  of  what  had  passed,  comforted 
him  with  a  decent  number  of  fools  and  blockheads  ; 
asked  him  why  he  did  not  consult  her,  and  told 
him  he  would  never  leave  following  the  nonsensical 
dictates  of  his  own  numskull  till  she  and  her  family 
were  ruined. 

Joseph,  being  informed  of  the  captain's  arrival, 
and  seeing  his  Fanny  now  in  safety,  quitted  her  a 
moment,  and,  running  downstairs,  went  directly  to 
him,  and  stripping  off  his  coat,  challenged  him  to 
fight ;  but  the  captain  refused,  saying  he  did  not 
understand  boxing.  He  then  grasped  a  cudgel  in 
one  hand,  and,  catching  the  captain  by  the  collar 
with  the  other,  gave  him  a  most  severe  drubbing,  and 
ended  with  telling  him  he  had  now  had  some  revenge 
for  what  his  dear  Fanny  had  suffered. 

When  Mr.  Pounce  had  a  little  regaled  himself  with 
some  provision  which  he  had  in  his  chariot,  and  Mr. 
Adams  had  put  on  the  best  appearance  his  clothes 
would  allow  him,  Pounce  ordered  the  captain  into 
his  presence,  for  he  said  he  was  guilty  of  felony, 
and  the  next  justice  of  peace  should  commit  him  ; 
but  the  servants  (whose  appetite  for  revenge  is  soon 
satisfied),  being  sufficiently  contented  with  the  drub- 
bing which  Joseph  had  inflicted  on  him,  and  which  was 
indeed  of  no  very  moderate  kind,  had  suffered  him  to 
go  off,  which  he  did,  threatening  a  severe  revenge 
against  Joseph,  which  I  have  never  heard  he  thought 
proper  to  take. 

[155] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

The  mistress  of  the  house  made  her  voluntary  ap- 
pearance before  Mr.  Pounce,  and  with  a  thousand 
curtsies  told  him,  "  She  hoped  his  honour  would 
pardon  her  husband,  who  was  a  very  nonsense  man, 
for  the  sake  of  his  poor  family  ;  that  indeed  if  he 
could  be  ruined  alone,  she  should  be  very  willing  of 
it ;  for  because  as  why,  his  worship  very  well  knew  he 
deserved  it ;  but  she  had  three  poor  small  children, 
who  were  not  capable  to  get  their  own  living ;  and  if 
her  husband  was  sent  to  gaol,  they  must  all  come  to 
the  parish  ;  for  she  was  a  poor  weak  woman,  contin- 
ually a-breeding,  and  had  no  time  to  work  for  them. 
She  therefore  hoped  his  honour  would  take  it  into 
his  worship's  consideration,  and  forgive  her  husband 
this  time ;  for  she  was  sure  he  never  intended  any 
harm  to  man,  woman,  or  child  ;  and  if  it  was  not  for 
that  block-head  of  his  own,  the  man  in  some  things 
was  well  enough ;  for  she  had  had  three  children  by 
him  in  less  than  three  years,  and  was  almost  ready  to 
cry  out  the  fourth  time."  She  would  have  proceeded 
in  this  manner  much  longer,  had  not  Peter  stopt  her 
tongue,  by  telling  her  he  had  nothing  to  say  to  her 
husband  nor  her  neither.  So,  as  Adams  and  the 
rest  had  assured  her  of  forgiveness,  she  cried  and 
curtsied  out  of  the  room. 

Mr.  Pounce  was  desirous  that  Fanny  should  con- 
tinue her  journey  with  him  in  the  chariot ;  but  she 
absolutely  refused,  saying  she  would  ride  behind 
Joseph  on  a  horse  which  one  of  Lady  Booby's  servants 
had  equipped  him  with.  But,  alas !  when  the  horse 
appeared,  it  was  found  to  be  no  other  than  that 
identical  beast  which  Mr.  Adams  had  left  behind  him 

[  156  ] 


A    FRIENDLY    CONTEST 

at  the  inn,  and  which  these  honest  fellows,  who  knew 
him,  had  redeemed.  Indeed,  whatever  hoise  they 
had  provided  for  Joseph,  they  would  have  prevailed 
with  him  to  mount  none,  no,  not  even  to  ride  before 
his  beloved  Fanny,  till  the  parson  was  supplied  ;  much 
less  would  he  deprive  his  friend  of  the  beast  which 
belonged  to  him,  and  which  he  knew  the  moment  he 
saw,  though  Adams  did  not ;  however,  when  he  was 
reminded  of  the  affair,  and  told  that  they  had  brought 
the  horse  with  them  which  he  left  behind,  he  an- 
swered —  Bless  me !  and  so  I  did. 

Adams  was  very  desirous  that  Joseph  and  Fanny 
should  mount  this  horse,  and  declared  he  could  very 
easily  walk  home.  "  If  I  walked  alone,''  says  he,  "  I 
would  wage  a  shilling  that  the  pedestrian  outstripped 
the  e(j[uestrian  travellers ;  but,  as  I  intend  to  take 
the  company  of  a  pipe,  perad venture  I  may  be  an 
hour  later."  One  of  the  servants  whispered  Joseph 
to  take  him  at  his  word,  and  suffer  the  old  put  to 
walk  if  he  would  :  this  proposal  was  answered  with 
an  angry  look  and  a  peremptory  refusal  by  Joseph, 
who,  catching  Fanny  up  in  his  arms,  averred  he  would 
rather  carry  her  home  in  that  manner,  than  take 
away  Mr.  Adams's  horse  and  permit  him  to  walk  on 
foot. 

Perhaps,  reader,  thou  hast  seen  a  contest  between 
two  gentlemen,  or  two  ladies,  quickly  decided,  though 
they  have  both  asserted  they  would  not  eat  such  a 
nice  morsel,  and  each  insisted  on  the  other's  accept- 
ing it ;  but  in  reality  both  were  very  desirous  to 
swallow  it  themselves.  Do  not  therefore  conclude 
hence  that  this  dispute  would  have  come  to  a  speedy 

[157] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

decision  :  for  here  both  parties  were  heartily  in  earn- 
est, and  it  is  very  probable  they  would  have  remained 
in  the  inn-yard  to  this  day,  had  not  the  good  Peter 
Pounce  put  a  stop  to  it ;  for,  finding  he  had  no 
longer  hopes  of  satisfying  his  old  appetite  with 
Fanny,  and  being  desirous  of  having  some  one  to 
whom  he  might  communicate  his  grandeur,  he  told 
the  parson  he  would  convey  him  houje  in  his  chariot. 
This  favour  was  by  Adams,  with  many  bows  and 
acknowledgments,  accepted,  though  he  afterwards 
said,  "  he  ascended  the  chariot  rather  that  he  might 
not  offend  than  from  any  desire  of  riding  in  it,  for 
that  in  his  heart  he  preferred  the  pedestrian  even  to 
the  vehicular  expedition."  All  matters  being  now 
settled,  the  chariot,  in  which  rode  Adams  and  Pounce, 
moved  forwards  ;  and  Joseph  having  borrowed  a  pil- 
lion from  the  host,  Fanny  had  just  seated  herself 
thereon,  and  had  laid  hold  of  the  girdle  which  her 
lover  wore  for  that  purpose,  when  the  wise  beast,  who 
concluded  that  one  at  a  time  was  sufficient,  that  two 
to  ono  were  odds,  ^c,  discovered  much  uneasiness  at 
his  double  load,  and  began  to  consider  his  hinder  as 
his  fore  legs,  moving  the  direct  contrary  way  to  that 
which  is  called  forwards.  Nor  could  Joseph,  with 
all  his  horsemanship,  persuade  him  to  advance  ;  but, 
without  having  any  regard  to  the  lovely  part  of  the 
lovely  girl  which  was  on  his  back,  he  used  such 
agitations,  that,  had  not  one  of  the  men  come  imme- 
diately to  her  assistance,  she  had,  in  plain  English, 
tumbled  backwards  on  the  ground.  This  incon- 
venience was  presently  remedied  by  an  exchange  of 
horses ;  and  then  Fanny  being  again  placed  on  her 

[158] 


A    PEACEFUL    JOURNEY 

pillion,  on  a  better-natured  and  somewhat  a  better- 
fed  beast,  the  parson's  horse,  finding  he  had  no  longer 
odds  to  contend  with,  agreed  to  march ;  and  the 
whole  procession  set  forwards  for  Booby-hall,  where 
they  arrived  in  a  few  hours  without  anything  re- 
markable happening  on  the  road,  unless  it  was  a 
curious  (halogue  between  the  parson  and  the  steward  : 
which,  to  use  the  language  of  a  late  Apologist,  a 
pattern  to  all  biographers,  "  waits  for  the  reader  in 
the  next  chapter/"' 


[159] 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

A  CURIOUS  DIALOGUE  WHICH  PASSED  BETWEEN  MR. 
ABRAHAM  ADAMS  AND  MR.  PETER  POUNCE,  BETIER 
WORTH  READING  THAN  ALL  THE  WORKS  OF  COLLEY 
CIBBER  AND  MANY  OTHERS. 

THE  chcariot  had  not  proceeded  far  before 
Mr.  Adams  observed  it  was  a  very  fine 
day.  "  Ay,  and  a  very  fine  country  too," 
answered  Pounce.  —  "I  should  think 
so  more,*"  returned  Adams,  "if  I  had  not  lately 
travelled  over  the  Downs,  which  I  take  to  exceed 
this  and  all  other  prospects  in  the  universe."  —  "A 
fig  for  prospects  ! "  answered  Pounce ;  "  one  acre 
here  is  worth  ten  there ;  and  for  my  own  part,  I  have 
no  delight  in  the  prospect  of  any  land  but  my  own." 
— "  Sir,"  said  Adams,  "  you  can  indulge  yourself 
with  many  fine  prospects  of  that  kind."  —  "I  thank 
God  I  have  a  little,"  replied  the  other,  "with  which 
I  am  content,  and  envy  no  man  :  I  have  a  little,  Mr. 
Adams,  with  which  I  do  as  much  good  as  I  can." 
Adams  answered,  "  That  riches  without  charity  were 
nothing  worth  ;  for  that  they  were  a  blessing  only  to 
him  who  made  them  a  blessing  to  others."  —  "  You 
and  I," said  Peter,  "have  different  notions  of  charity. 
I  own,  as  it  is  generally  used,  I  do  not  like  the  word, 
nor  do  I  think  it  becomes  one  of  us  gentlemen  ;  it  is 
a    mean  parson-like    quality  ;    though   I   would  not 

[  160] 


•» 
I 


A    CURIOUS    DIALOGUE 

infer  many  parsons  have  it  neither."  —  "  Sir,*"  said 
Adams,  "  my  definition  of  charity  is,  a  generous  dis- 
position to  reHeve  the  distressed."  —  "  There  is  some- 
thing in  that  definition,"  answered  Peter,  "  which  I 
hke  well  enough ;  it  is,  as  you  say,  a  disposition,  and 
does  not  so  much  consist  in  the  act  as  in  the  dispo- 
sition to  do  it.  But,  alas !  Mr.  Adams,  who  are 
meant  by  the  distressed  ?  Believe  me,  the  distresses 
of  mankind  are  mostly  imaginary,  and  it  would  be 
rather  follv  than  goodness  to  relieve  them,"  —  "  Sure, 
sir,"  replied  xVdams,  "  hunger  and  thirst,  cold  and 
nakedness,  and  other  distresses  which  attend  the 
poor,  can  never  be  said  to  be  imaginary  evils."  — 
"  How  can  any  man  complain  of  liunger,"  said  Peter, 
"  in  a  country  where  such  excellent  salads  are  to  be 
gathered  in  almost  every  field  ?  or  of  thirst,  where 
every  river  and  stream  produces  such  delicious  po- 
tations ?  And  as  for  cold  and  nakedness,  they  are 
evils  introduced  by  luxury  and  custom.  A  man 
naturally  wants  clothes  no  more  than  a  horse  or  any 
other  animal ;  and  there  are  whole  nations  who  go 
without  them  ;  but  these  are  things  perhaps  which 
you,  who  do  not  know  the  world "  — "  You  will 
pardon  me,  sir,"  returned  Adams  ;  "  I  have  read  of 
the  Gymnosophists."  —  "A  plague  of  your  Jehosa- 
phats !  "  cried  Peter ;  "  the  greatest  fault  in  our  con- 
stitution is  the  provision  made  for  the  poor,  except 
that  perhaps  made  for  some  others.  Sir,  I  have  not 
an  estate  which  doth  not  contribute  almost  as  much 
again  to  the  poor  as  to  the  land-tax  ;  and  I  do  as- 
sure you  I  expect  to  come  myself  to  the  parish  in  the 
end."  To  which  Adams  giving  a  dissenting  smile, 
VOL.  II. —  11  [  161  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Peter  thus  proceeded  :  "  I  fancy,  Mr.  Adams,  you  are 
one  of  those  wlio  imagine  I  am  a  hnnj)  of  money  ; 
for  there  are  many  wlio,  I  fancy,  believe  that  not 
only  my  pockets,  ])ut  my  whole  clothes,  are  lined 
with  bank-bills;  but  I  assure  you,  you  are  all  mis- 
taken ;  I  am  not  the  man  the  world  esteems  me. 
If  I  can  hold  my  head  above  water  it  is  all  I  can. 
I  have  injured  myself  by  purchasing.  I  have  been 
too  liberal  of  my  money.  Indeed,  I  fear  my  heir 
will  find  my  affairs  in  a  worse  situation  than  they 
are  reputed  to  be.  Ah  !  he  will  have  reason  to  wish 
I  had  loved  money  more  and  land  less.  Pray,  my 
good  neighbour,  where  should  I  have  that  quantity 
of  riches  the  world  is  so  liberal  to  bestow  on  me  ? 
Where  could  I  possibly,  without  I  had  stole  it,  acquire 
such  a  treasure  ?  "  "  Why,  truly,""  says  Adams,  "  I 
have  been  always  of  your  opinion  ;  I  have  wondered 
as  well  as  yourself  with  what  confidence  they  could 
report  such  things  of  you,  which  have  to  me  appeared 
as  mere  impossibilities  ;  for  you  know,  sir,  and  I  have 
often  heard  you  say  it,  that  your  wealth  is  of  your 
own  ac(|uisition  ;  and  can  it  be  credible  that  in  your 
short  time  you  should  have  amassed  such  a  heap  of 
treasure  as  these  people  will  have  you  worth  ?  In- 
deed, had  you  inherited  an  estate  like  Sir  Thomas 
Booby,  which  had  descended  in  your  family  for  many 
generations,  they  miglit  have  had  a  coloiu-  for  their 
assertions."  "  Why,  what  do  they  say  I  am  worth  ?  " 
cries  Peter,  with  a  malicious  sneer.  "  Sir,"  answered 
Adams,  "  I  have  heard  some  aver  you  are  not  worth 
less  than  twenty  thousand  pounds."  At  which 
Peter  frowned.      "Nay,  sir,"  said  Adams,  "you  ask 

"[  162  ] 


THE    PARSON     INDIGNANT 

me  only  the  opinion  of  others  ;  for  my  own  part,  I  have 
always  denied  it,  nor  did  I  ever  believe  you  could 
possibly  be  worth  half  that  sum."'  "  However,  Mr, 
Adams,''  said  he,  squeezing  him  by  the  hand,  "I 
would  not  sell  them  all  I  am  worth  for  double  that 
sum  ;  and  as  to  what  you  believe,  or  they  believe,  I 
care  not  a  fig,  no  not  a  fart.  I  am  not  poor  because 
you  think  me  so,  nor  because  you  attempt  to  under- 
value me  in  the  country.  I  know  the  envy  of  man- 
kind very  well;  but  I  thank  Heaven  1  am  above 
them.  It  is  true,  my  wealth  is  of  my  own  acquisi- 
tion. I  have  not  an  estate,  like  Sir  Thomas 
Booby,  that  has  descended  in  my  family  through 
many  generations  ;  but  I  know  heirs  of  such  estates 
who  are  forced  to  travel  about  the  country  like  some 
people  in  torn  cassocks,  and  might  be  glad  to  accept 
of  a  pitiful  curacy  for  wliat  I  know.  Yes,  sir,  as 
shabby  fellows  as  yourself,  whom  no  man  of  my 
figure,  without  that  vice  of  good-nature  about  him, 
would  suffer  to  ride  in  a  chariot  with  him."  "Sir," 
said  Adams,  "  I  value  not  your  chariot  of  a  rush  ; 
and  if  I  had  known  you  had  intended  to  affront  me, 
I  would  have  walked  to  the  world's  end  on  foot  ere 
I  would  have  accepted  a  place  in  it.  However,  sir,  I 
will  soon  rid  you  of  that  inconvenience  ;"  and,  so 
saying,  he  opened  the  chariot  door,  witiiout  calHng 
to  the  coachman,  and  leapt  out  into  the  highway, 
forgetting  to  take  his  hat  along  with  him  ;  which, 
however,  Mr.  Pounce  threw  after  him  with  great 
violence.  Joseph  and  Faimy  stopt  to  bear  him  com- 
pany the  rest  of  the  way,  which  was  not  above  a  mile. 

[163] 


BOOK    IV 
CHAPTER    I 

THE    ARRIVAL  OF  LADY   BOOBY  AND  THE   REST  AT  BOOBY- 
HALL. 

THE  coach  and  six,  in  which  Lady  Booby 
rode,  overtook  the  other  travellers  as 
they  entered  the  parish.  She  no  sooner 
saw  Joseph  than  her  cheeks  glowed  with 
red,  and  immediately  after  became  as  totally  pale. 
She  had  in  her  surprize  almost  stopt  her  coach  ;  but 
recollected  herself  timely  enough  to  prevent  it.  She 
entered  the  parish  amidst  the  ringing  of  bells  and 
the  acclamations  of  the  poor,  who  were  rejoiced  to 
see  their  patroness  returned  after  so  long  an  absence, 
during  which  time  all  her  rents  had  been  drafted  to 
London,  without  a  shilling  being  spent  among  them, 
which  tended  not  a  little  to  their  utter  impoverishing ; 
for,  if  the  court  would  l)e  severely  missed  in  such  a 
city  as  London,  how  much  more  must  the  absence  of 
a  person  of  great  fortune  be  felt  in  a  little  country 
village,  for  whose  inhabitants  such  a  family  finds  a 
constant  employment  and  supply ;  and  with  the 
offals  of  whose  table  the  infirm,  aged,  and  infant 
poor  are  abundantly  fed,  with  a  generosity  which 
hath  scarce  a  visible  effect  on  their  benefactors' 
pockets ! 

[164] 


A    HEARTY  WELCOME 

But,  if  their  interest  inspired  so  public  a  joy  into 
every  countenance,  how  much  more  forcibly  did  the 
affection  which  they  bore  parson  Adams  operate  up- 
on all  who  beheld  his  return  !  They  flocked  about 
him  like  dutiful  children  round  an  induli^ent  parent, 
and  vyed  with  each  other  in  demonstrations  of  duty 
and  love.  The  parson  on  his  side  shook  every  one 
by  the  hand,  enquired  heartily  after  the  healths  of 
all  that  were  absent,  of  their  children,  and  relations  ; 
and  exprest  a  satisfaction  in  his  face  which  nothing 
but  benevolence  made  happy  by  its  objects  could 
infuse. 

Nor  did  Joseph  and  Fanny  want  a  hearty  welcome 
from  all  who  saw  them.  In  short,  no  three  persons 
could  be  more  kindly  received,  as,  indeed,  none  ever 
more  deserved  to  be  universally  beloved. 

Adams  cai'ried  his  fellow-travellers  home  to  his 
house,  where  he  insisted  on  their  partaking  whatever 
his  wife,  whom,  with  his  children,  he  found  in  health 
and  joy,  could  provide  :  —  where  we  shall  leave  them 
enjoying  perfect  happiness  over  a  homely  meal,  to 
view  scenes  of  greater  splendour,  but  infinitely  less 
bliss. 

Our  more  intelligent  readers  will  doubtless  sus- 
pect, by  this  second  appearance  of  Lady  Booby  on 
the  stage,  that  all  was  not  ended  by  the  dismission 
of  Joseph  ;  and,  to  be  honest  with  them,  they  are 
in  the  right :  the  arrow  had  pierced  deeper  than  she 
imagined ;  nor  was  the  wound  so  easily  to  be  cured. 
The  removal  of  the  object  soon  cooled  her  rage,  but 
it  had  a  different  effect  on  her  love  ;  that  departed 
with  his  person,  but   this  remained    lurking  in  her 

[  165  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

mind  with  his  imat;e.  Restless,  interrupted  slum- 
bers, and  confused  lu)ri"ible  dreams  were  her  portion 
the  first  nii!;ht.  In  the  morning,  fancy  painted  her  a 
more  delicious  scene  ;  but  to  delude,  not  delight  her; 
for,  before  she  could  reach  the  promised  happiness, 
it  vanished,  and  left  her  to  curse,  not  bless,  the 
vision. 

She  started  from  her  sleep,  her  imagination  being 
all  on  fire  with  the  phantom,  when,  her  eyes  acci- 
dentally glancing  towards  the  spot  where  yesterday 
the  real  Joseph  had  stood,  that  little  circumstance 
raised  his  idea  in  the  liveliest  colours  in  her  memory. 
Each  look,  each  word,  each  gesture  rushed  back  on 
her  mind  with  charms  which  all  his  coldness  could 
not  abate.  Nay,  she  imputed  tliat  to  his  youth,  his 
folly,  his  awe,  his  religion,  to  everything  but  what 
would  instantly  have  produced  contempt,  want  of 
passion  for  the  sex,  or  that  which  would  have  roused 
her  hatred,  want  of  liking  to  her. 

Reflection  tlien  hurried  her  farther,  and  told  her 
she  must  see  this  beautiful  youth  no  more  ;  nay,  sug- 
gested to  her  that  she  herself  had  dismissed  him  for 
no  other  fault  than  probably  that  of  too  violent  an 
awe  and  respect  for  herself;  and  which  she  ouglit 
rather  to  have  esteemed  a  merit,  the  effects  of  which 
were  besides  so  easily  and  surely  to  have  been 
removed  ;  she  then  blamed,  she  cursed  the  hasty 
rashness  of  her  temper  ;  her  fury  was  vented  all  on 
herself,  and  Joseph  appeared  innocent  in  her  eyes. 
Her  passion  at  length  grew  so  violent,  that  it  forced 
her  on  seeking  relief,  and  now  she  thought  of  recall- 
ing him  :  I)ut  pride  forbad  that ;  pride,  which  soon 

[166] 


LADY    BOOBY'S    SENTIMENTS 

drove  all  softer  passions  from  her  soul,  and  represented 
to  her  the  meanness  of  him  she  was  fond  of.  That 
thought  soon  began  to  ol)scui-e  his  beauties ;  con- 
tempt succeeded  next,  and  then  disdain,  which  pres- 
ently introduced  her  hatred  of  the  creature  who  had 
triven  her  so  much  uneasiness.  These  enemies  of 
Joseph  had  no  sooner  taken  possession  of  her  mind 
than  they  insinuated  to  her  a  thousand  things  in  his 
disfavour  ;  everything  but  dislike  of  her  person  ;  a 
thouo-ht  whicli,  as  it  would  have  been  intolerable  to 
bear,  she  checked  the  moment  it  endeavoured  to  arise. 
Revenire  came  now  to  her  assistance  ;  and  she  con- 
sidered  her  dismission  of  him,  stript,  and  without  a 
character,  with  the  utmost  pleasure.  She  rioted  in 
the  several  kinds  of  misery  which  her  imagination 
sussested  to  her  might  be  his  fate ;  and,  with  a  smile 
composed  of  anger,  mirth,  and  scorn,  viewed  him  in 
the  rags  in  which  her  fancy  had  drest  him. 

Mrs.  Slipslop,  being  sunuuoned,  attended  her 
mistress,  who  had  now  in  her  own  opinion  totally 
subdued  this  passion.  Whilst  she  was  dressing  she 
asked  if  that  fellow  had  been  turned  away  according 
to  her  orders.  Slipslop  answered,  she  had  told  her 
ladyship  so  (as  indeed  she  had).  —  "  And  how  did  he 
behave .?■"  rephed  the  lady.  "Truly,  madam,"  cries 
Slipslop,  "  in  such  a  manner  that  infected  everybody 
who  saw  him.  The  poor  lad  had  but  little  wages  to 
receive;  for  he  constantly  allowed  his  father  and 
mother  half  his  income  ;  so  that,  when  your  lady- 
ship's livery  was  stript  off,  he  had  not  wherewithal  to 
buy  a  coat,  and  must  have  gone  naked  if  one  of  the 
footmen  had  not  inconnnodated  him  with  one  ;  and 

[  167  j 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

whilst  he  was  standing  in  his  shirt  (and,  to  say  truth, 
he  was  an  amorous  figure),  being  told  your  ladyship 
would  not  give  him  a  character,  he  sighed,  and  said 
he  had  done  nothing  willingly  to  offend  ;  that  for 
his  part,  he  should  always  give  your  ladyship  a  good 
character  wherever  he  went ;  and  he  prayed  God  to 
bless  you  ;  for  you  was  the  best  of  ladies,  though  his 
enemies  had  set  you  against  him.  I  wish  you  had  not 
turned  him  away  ;  for  I  believe  you  have  not  a  faith- 
fuller  servant  in  the  house," — "How came  you  then,'"' 
replied  the  lady,  "to  advise  me  to  turn  him  away  ?" 
—  "  I,  madam  !  "  said  Slipslop  ;  "  I  am  sure  you  will 
do  me  the  justice  to  say,  I  did  all  in  my  power  to 
prevent  it ;  but  I  saw  your  ladyship  was  angry  ;  and 
it  is  not  the  business  of  us  upper  servants  to  hinterfear 
on  these  occasions.""  "  And  Avas  it  not  you,  audacious 
wretch  !  '^  cried  the  lady,  "  who  made  me  angry  ? 
Was  it  not  your  tittle-tattle,  in  which  I  believe  you 
belyed  the  poor  fellow,  which  incensed  me  against 
him  ?  He  may  thank  you  for  all  that  hath  happened  ; 
and  so  may  I  for  the  loss  of  a  good  servant,  and  one 
who  probably  had  more  merit  than  all  of  you.  Poor 
fellow !  I  am  charmed  with  his  goodness  to  his 
parents.  Why  did  not  you  tell  me  of  that,  but  suffer 
me  to  dismiss  so  good  a  creature  without  a  character  ? 
I  see  the  reason  of  your  whole  beha\iour  now  as  well 
as  your  complaint ;  you  was  jealous  of  the  wenches." 
"I  jealous  ! ""  said  Slipslop  ;  "  I  assure  you,  I  look  upon 
myself  as  his  betters  ;  I  am  not  meat  for  a  footman,  I 
hope."  These  words  threw  the  lady  into  a  violent  pas- 
sion, and  she  sent  Slipslop  from  her  presence,  who  de- 
parted, tossing  her  nose,  and  crving,  "Marry,  come  up  ! 

[  168  ] 


THE    BANNS    PUBLISHED 

there  are  some  people  more  jealous  than  I,  I  believe."'"' 
Her  lady  affected  not  to  hear  the  words,  though  in 
reality  she  did,  and  understood  them  too.  Now 
ensued  a  second  conflict,  so  like  the  former,  that  it 
might  savour  of  repetition  to  relate  it  minutely.  It 
may  suffice  to  say  that  Lady  Booby  found  good  reason 
to  doubt  whether  she  had  so  absolutely  conquered  her 
passion  as  she  had  flattered  herself ;  and,  in  order  to 
accomplish  it  quite,  took  a  resolution,  more  common 
than  wise,  to  retire  immediately  into  the  country. 
The  reader  hath  long  ago  seen  the  arrival  of  Mrs. 
Slipslop,  whom  no  pertness  could  make  her  mistress 
resolve  to  part  with  ;  lately,  that  of  Mr.  Pounce,  her 
forerunnci-s  ;  and,  lastly,  that  of  the  lady  herself. 

The  morning  after  her  arrival  being  Sunday,  she 
went  to  church,  to  the  great  surprize  of  everybody, 
wlu)  wondered  to  see  her  ladyship,  being  no  very 
constant  church-woman,  there  so  suddenly  upon  her 
journey.  Joseph  was  likewise  there;  and  I  have 
heard  it  was  remarked  that  she  fixed  her  eyes  on 
him  much  more  than  on  the  parson  ;  but  this  I 
believe  to  be  only  a  malicious  rumour.  When  the 
prayers  were  ended  Mr.  Adams  stood  up,  and  with 
a  loud  voice  pronounced,  "I  publish  the  banns  of 
marriage  between  Joseph  Andrews  and  Erances  Good- 
will, both  of  this  parish,"  &c.  Whether  this  had 
any  effect  on  Lady  Booby  or  no,  who  was  then  in  her 
pew,  which  the  congregation  could  not  see  into,  I 
could  never  discover :  but  certain  it  is  that  in  about 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  stood  up,  and  directed  her 
eyes  to  that  part  of  the  church  where  the  women  sat, 
and    persisted    in  looking    that  way  during  the  re- 

[169] 


JOSEPH    AxNDREWS 

mainder  of  the  sermon  in  so  scrutinizing  a  manner 
and  with  so  angry  a  countenance,  that  most  of  the 
women  were  afraid  she  was  offended  at  tliem.  The 
moment  she  returned  liome  she  sent  for  Shpslop  into 
her  chamber,  and  told  her  she  wondered  wliat  tliat 
impudent  fellow  Joseph  did  in  that  parish  ?  Upon 
which  Slipslop  gave  her  an  account  of  her  meeting 
Adams  with  him  on  the  road,  and  likewise  the  adven- 
ture with  Farmy.  At  the  relation  of  which  the  lady 
often  changed  her  countenance;  and  when  she  had 
heard  all,  she  ordered  Mr.  Adams  into  her  presence, 
to  whom  she  behaved  as  the  reader  will  see  in  the 
next  chapter. 


[170] 


CHAPTER    TWO 

A    DIALOGUE    BETWEEN    MR.    ABRAHAM    ADAMS    AND    THE 

LADY    BOOBY. 

MR.  ADAMS  was  not  far  off,  for  he  was 
drinking  her  ladysliip's  health  lielow  in 
a  cup  of  her  ale.  He  no  sooner  came 
before  her  than  she  betjan  in  the 
following  manner :  "  I  wonder,  sir,  after  the  many 
great  obligations  you  have  had  to  this  family ""  (with 
all  which  the  reader  hath  in  the  course  of  this  history 
been  minutely  acquainted),  "  that  you  will  ungrate- 
fully show  any  respect  to  a  fellow  who  hath  been 
turned  out  of  it  for  his  misdeeds.  Nor  doth  it,  I  can 
tell  you,  sir,  become  a  man  of  your  character,  to  run 
about  the  country  with  an  idle  fellow  and  wench. 
Indeed,  as  for  the  girl,  I  know  no  harm  of  her. 
Slipslop  tells  me  she  was  formerly  bred  up  in  my 
house,  and  behaved  as  she  ought,  till  she  hankered  after 
this  fellow,  and  he  spoiled  her.  Nay,  she  may  still, 
perhaps,  do  very  well,  if  he  will  let  her  alone.  You 
are,  therefore,  doing  a  monstrous  thing  in  endeavour- 
ing to  procure  a  match  between  these  two  people, 
which  will  be  to  the  ruin  of  them  both."  —  "  Madam," 
said  Adams,  "  if  your  ladyship  will  but  hear  me 
speak,  I  protest  I  never  heard  any  harm  of  Mr. 
Joseph  Andrews  ;  if  I  had,  I  should  have  corrected  him 

[ITlj 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

for  it ;  for  I  never  have,  nor  will,  encourage  the  faults 
of  those  under  my  cure.  As  for  the  young  woman, 
I  assure  your  ladysliip  I  have  as  good  an  opinion  of  her 
as  your  ladyship  yourself  or  any  other  can  have.  She 
is  the  sweetest-tem})ered,  honestest,  worthiest  young 
creature  ;  indeed,  as  to  her  beauty,  I  do  not  com- 
mend her  on  that  account,  though  all  men  allow  she 
is  the  handsomest  woman,  gentle  or  simple,  that  ever 
appeared  in  the  parish."  —  "You  are  very  imperti- 
nent," says  she,  "  to  talk  such  fulsome  stuff  to  me. 
It  is  mighty  becoming  truly  in  a  dcrgvman  to 
trouble  himself  about  handsome  women,  and  you 
are.  a  delicate  judge  of  beauty,  no  doubt.  A  man 
who  hath  lived  all  his  life  in  such  a  parish  as  this  is 
a  rare  judge  of  beauty  !  Ridiculous  !  beauty  indeed  ! 
a  country  wench  a  beauty  !  I  shall  be  sick  whenever 
I  hear  beauty  n)entioned  again.  And  so  this  wench 
is  to  stock  the  parish  with  ])eauties,  I  hope.  But, 
sir,  our  poor  is  numerous  enough  already  ;  I  will  have 
no  more  vagabonds  settled  here." — "Madam,"  says 
Adams,  "your  ladyship  is  offended  with  me,  I 
protest,  without  any  reason.  This  couple  were  de- 
sirous to  consummate  long  ago,  and  I  dissuaded 
them  from  it ;  nay,  I  may  venture  to  say,  I  believe  I 
was  the  sole  cause  of  their  delaying  it."  —  "  Well," 
says  she,  "  and  you  did  very  wisely  and  honestly  too, 
notwithstanding  she  is  the  greatest  beauty  in  the 
parish."  —  "And  now,  madam,"  continued  he,  "I 
only  perform  my  office  to  Mr.  Joseph."  — "  Pray, 
don't  mister  such  fellows  to  me,"  cries  the  lady. 
"  He,"  said  the  parson,  "  with  the  consent  of  Fanny, 
before  my  face,  put  in  the  banns."     "  Yes,"  answered 

[  172] 


LADY    BOOBY    AND    MR.    ADAMS 

the  lady,  "  I  suppose  the  skit  is  forward  enough  ; 
Shpslop  tells  nie  how  her  head  runs  upon  fellows ; 
that  is  one  of  her  beauties,  I  suppose.  But  if  they 
have  put  in  the  banns,  I  desire  you  will  publisli 
them  no  more  without  my  orders."  — "  Madam,'' 
cries  Adams,  "  if  any  one  puts  in  a  sufficient  caution, 
and  assigns  a  proper  reason  against  them,  I  am  will- 
ing to  surcease."  —  "I  tell  you  a  reason,"  says  she: 
"  he  is  a  vagabond,  and  he  shall  not  settle  here,  and 
bring  a  nest  of  beggars  into  the  parish  ;  it  will  make 
us  but  little  amends  that  they  will  be  beauties."  — 
"  Madam,"  answered  Adams,  "  with  the  utmost  sub- 
mission to  your  ladyship,  I  have  been  informed  by 
lawyer  Scout  tliat  any  person  who  serves  a  year 
gains  a  settlement  in  the  parish  where  he  serves."  — 
"  Lawyer  Scout,"  replied  the  lady,  "  is  an  impudent 
coxcomb ;  I  will  have  no  lawyer  Scout  interfere  with 
me.  I  repeat  to  you  again,  I  will  have  no  more 
incumbrances  brought  on  us :  so  I  desire  you  will 
proceed  no  farther." —  "  Madam,"  returned  Adams, 
"  I  would  obey  your  ladyship  in  everything  that  is 
lawful ;  but  surely  the  parties  being  poor  is  no 
reason  against  their  marrying.  God  forbid  there 
should  be  any  such  law  !  The  poor  have  little  share 
enough  of  this  world  already ;  it  would  be  barbar- 
ous indeed  to  deny  them  the  common  privileges  and 
innocent  enjoyments  which  nature  indulges  to  the 
animal  creation."  —  "  Since  you  understand  yourself 
no  better,"  cries  the  lady,  "  nor  the  respect  due  from 
such  as  you  to  a  woman  of  my  distinction,  than  to 
affront  my  ears  by  such  loose  discourse,  I  shall  men- 
tion but   one   short  word  ;    it  is  my  orders  to  you 

[173] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

that  you  publisli  tliose  banns  no  more;  and  if  you 
dare,  I  will  reconunend  it  to  your  master,  the  doctor, 
to  discard  you  from  his  service.  I  will,  sir,  notwith- 
standing your  poor  family  ;  and  then  you  and  the 
greatest  beauty  in  the  parish  may  go  and  beg 
together.*"  —  "  Madam,""  answered  Adams,  "  I  know 
not  what  your  ladyship  means  by  the  terms  master 
and  service.  I  am  in  the  service  of  a  Master  who 
will  never  discard  me  for  doing  my  duty ;  and  if  the 
doctor  (for  indeed  I  have  never  been  able  to  pay  for 
a  licence)  thinks  proper  to  turn  me  fiom  my  cure, 
God  will  provide  me,  I  hope,  another.  At  least, 
my  family,  as  well  as  myself,  have  hands ;  and  he 
will  prosper,  I  doubt  not,  our  endeavours  to  get  our 
bread  honestly  with  them.  Whilst  my  conscience  is 
pure,  I  shall  never  fear  what  man  can  do  unto  me."" 
—  "I  condemn  my  humility,"'''  said  the  lady,  "for 
demeaning  myself  to  converse  with  you  so  long.  I 
shall  take  other  measures  ;  for  I  see  you  are  a  con- 
federate with  them.  But  the  sooner  you  leave  me 
the  better;  and  I  shall  give  orders  that  my  doors 
may  no  longer  be  open  to  you.  I  will  suffer  no 
parsons  who  run  about  the  country  with  beauties  to 
be  entertained  here."*""  —  "  Madam,""  said  Adams,  "  I 
shall  enter  into  no  persons"*  doors  against  their  will ; 
but  I  am  assured,  when  you  have  enquired  farther 
into  this  matter,  you  will  applaud,  not  blame,  my 
proceeding ;  and  so  I  humbly  take  my  leave : ""  which 
he  did  with  many  bows,  or  at  least  many  attempts 
at  a  bow. 


[174] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

WHAT  PASSED   BETWEEN   THE   LADY   AND   LA^VYER   SCOUT. 

IN  the  afternoon  the  lady  sent  for  Mr.  Scout, 
whom  she  attacked  most  violently  for  inter- 
meddling with  her  servants,  which  he  denied, 
and  indeed  with  truth,  for  he  had  only  asserted 
accidentally,  and  perhaps  rightly,  that  a  years  ser- 
vice gained  a  settlement ;  and  so  far  he  owned  he 
might  have  formerly  informed  the  parson  and  be- 
lieved it  was  law.  "  I  am  resolved,"  said  the  lady, 
"  to  have  no  discarded  servants  of  mine  settled  here  ; 
and  so,  if  this  be  your  law,  I  shall  send  to  another 
lawyer."  Scout  said,  "  If  she  sent  to  a  hundred 
lawyers,  not  one  or  all  of  them  could  alter  the  law. 
The  utmost  that  was  in  the  power  of  a  lawyer  was  to 
prevent  the  lawn's  taking  effect ;  and  that  he  himself 
could  do  for  her  ladyship  as  well  as  anv  other ;  and 
I  believe,"  says  he,  "  madam,  your  ladyship,  not 
being  conversant  in  these  matters,  hath  mistaken  a 
difference ;  for  I  asserted  only  that  a  man  who  served 
a  year  was  settled.  Now  there  is  a  material  difference 
between  being  settled  in  law  and  settled  in  fact ;  and 
as  I  affirmed  generally  he  was  settled,  and  law  is  pre- 
ferable to  fact,  my  settlement  must  be  understood  in 
law  and  not  in  fact.  And  suppose,  madam,  we  admit 
he  was  settled  in  law,  what  use  will  they  make  of  it .'' 
how  doth  that  relate  to  fact .''    He  is  not  settled  in 

[175] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

fact ;  and  if  he  be  not  settled  in  fact,  he  is  not  an 
inhabitant ;  and  if  he  is  not  an  inhabitant,  he  is  not 
of  this  parish  ;  and  then  undoubtedly  he  ought  not 
to  be  published  here ;  for  Mr.  Adams  hath  told  me 
your  ladyship's  pleasure,  and  the  reason,  which  is  a 
very  good  one,  to  prevent  burdening  us  with  the 
poor;  we  have  too  many  already,  and  I  think  we 
ought  to  have  an  act  to  hang  or  transport  half 
of  them.  If  we  can  prove  in  evidence  that  he  is 
not  settled  in  fact,  it  is  another  matter.  What 
I  said  to  Mr.  Adams  was  on  a  supposition  that  he 
was  settled  in  fact ;  and  indeed,  if  that  was  the  case, 
I  should  doubt."  —  "  Don't  tell  me  your  facts  and 
your  ifs,"  said  the  lady  ;  "  I  don't  understand  your 
gibberish ;  you  take  too  much  upon  you,  and  are 
very  impertinent,  in  pretending  to  direct  in  this  par- 
ish ;  and  you  shall  be  taught  better,  I  assure  you, 
vou  shall.  But  as  to  the  wench,  I  am  resolved  she 
shall  not  settle  here ;  I  will  not  suffer  such  beauties 
as  these  to  produce  children  for  us  to  keep.""  — 
"  Beauties,  indeed  !  your  ladyship  is  pleased  to  be 
merry,"  answered  Scout.  —  "Mr.  Adams  described 
her  so  to  me,*"  said  the  lady.  "  Pray,  what  sort  of 
dowdy  is  it,  Mr.  Scout  ?  "  —  "  The  ugliest  creature 
almost  I  ever  beheld ;  a  poor  dirty  drab,  your  lady- 
ship never  saw  such  a  wretch."  —  "  Well,  but,  dear 
Mr.  Scout,  let  her  be  what  she  will,  these  ugly 
women  will  bring  children,  you  know  ;  so  that  we 
must  prevent  the  marriage."  — "  True,  madam,"  re- 
plied Scout,  "  for  the  subsequent  marriage  co-oper- 
ating with  the  law  will  carry  law  into  fact.  When 
a  man  is  married  he  is  settled  in  fact,  and  then  he 

[  176  J 


LAWYER    SCOUT 

is  not  removable.  I  will  see  Mr.  Adams,  and  I 
make  no  doubt  of  prevailing  with  him.  His  only 
objection  is,  doubtless,  that  he  shall  lose  his  fee ; 
but  that  being  once  made  easy,  as  it  shall  be,  I  am 
confident  no  farther  objection  will  remain.  No,  no, 
it  is  impossible  ;  but  your  ladyship  can't  discommend 
his  unwillingness  to  depart  from  his  fee.  Every 
man  ought  to  have  a  proper  value  for  his  fee.  As 
to  the  matter  in  question,  if  your  ladyship  pleases  to 
employ  me  in  it,  I  will  venture  to  promise  you  suc- 
cess. The  laws  of  this  land  are  not  so  vulgar  to 
permit  a  mean  fellow  to  contend  with  one  of  your 
ladyship's  fortune.  ^Ve  have  one  sure  card,  which 
is,  to  carry  him  before  Justice  Frolick,  who,  upon 
hearing  your  ladyship's  name,  will  commit  him  with- 
out any  farther  questions.  As  for  the  dirty  slut,  we 
shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  her;  for,  if  we  get  rid 
of  the  fellow,  the  ugly  jade  will  —  "  —  "Take  what 
measures  you  ])lease,  good  Mr.  Scout,""  answered  the 
lady :  "  but  I  wish  you  could  rid  the  parish  of  both  ; 
for  Slipslop  tells  me  such  stories  of  this  wench,  that 
I  abhor  the  thoughts  of  her ;  and,  though  you  say 
she  is  such  an  ugly  slut,  yet  you  know,  dear  Mr. 
Scout,  these  forward  creatures,  who  run  after  men, 
will  always  find  some  as  forward  as  themselves  ;  so 
that,  to  prevent  the  increase  of  beggars,  we  must  get 
rid  of  her.""  —  "Your  ladyship  is  very  much  in  the 
right,'"'  answered  Scout;  "but  I  am  afraid  the  law 
is  a  little  deficient  in  giving  us  any  such  power  of 
prevention  ;  however,  the  justice  will  stretch  it  as 
far  as  he  is  able,  to  oblige  your  ladyship.  To  say 
truth,  it  is  a  great  blessing  to  the  country  that  he  is 

VOL.  11—12  [   177  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

in  the  commission,  for  he  hath  taken  several  poor 
off  our  hands  that  the  law  would  never  lay  hold  on. 
I  know  some  justices  who  think  as  much  of  commit- 
ting a  man  to  Bridewell  as  his  lordship  at  'size  would 
of  hanging  him  ;  but  it  would  do  a  man  good  to  see 
his  worship,  our  justice,  commit  a  fellow  to  Bride- 
well, he  takes  so  much  pleasure  in  it ;  and  when 
once  we  ha'um  there,  we  seldom  hear  any  more  o'  um. 
He 's  either  starved  or  eat  up  by  vermin  in  a  month's 
time."" — Here  the  arrival  of  a  visitor  put  an  end  to 
the  conversation,  and  Mr.  Scout,  having  undertaken 
the  cause  and  promised  it  success,  departed. 

This  Scout  was  one  of  those  fellows  who,  without 
any  knowledge  of  the  law,  or  being  bred  to  it,  take 
upon  them,  in  defiance  of  an  act  of  Parliament,  to 
act  as  lawyers  in  the  country,  and  are  called  so. 
They  are  the  pests  of  society,  and  a  scandal  to  a 
profession,  to  which  indeed  they  do  not  belong,  and 
which  owes  to  such  kind  of  rascallions  the  ill-will 
which  weak  persons  bear  towards  it.  With  this 
fellow,  to  whom  a  little  before  she  would  not  have 
condescended  to  have  spoken,  did  a  certain  passion 
for  Joseph,  and  the  jealousy  and  the  disdain  of  poor 
innocent  Fanny,  betray  the  Lady  Booby  into  a  fa- 
miliar discourse,  in  which  she  inadvertently  confirmed 
many  hints  with  which  Slipslop,  whose  gallant  he 
was,  had  pre-acquainted  him  ;  and  whence  he  had 
taken  an  opportunity  to  assert  those  severe  false- 
hoods of  little  Fanny  which  possibly  the  reader 
might  not  have  been  well  able  to  account  for  if  we  had 
not  thought  proper  to  give  him  this  information. 

[178] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

A  SHORT  CHAPTER,  BUT  VERY   FULL  OF   MATTER  ;    PARTICU- 
LARLY THE  ARRIVAL  OF  MR.   BOOBY  AND  HIS   LADY. 

j^    LL  that  night,  and  the  next  day,  the  Lady 
/^        Booby   past   with   the   utmost    anxiety ; 
Z— J^       her  mind  was  distracted   and   her  soul 
^  m     tossed  up  and  down  by  many  turbulent 

and  opposite  passions.  She  loved,  hated,  pitied, 
scorned,  aflmired,  despised  the  same  person  by  fits, 
which  chanj^ed  in  a  verv  short  interval.  On  Tuesday 
morning,  which  happened  to  be  a  holiday,  she  went 
to  church,  where,  to  her  surprize,  Mr.  Adams  pub- 
lished the  banns  again  with  as  audible  a  voice  as 
before.  It  was  lucky  for  her  that,  as  there  was  no 
sermon,  she  had  an  immediate  opportunity  of  return- 
ing home  to  vent  her  rage,  which  she  could  not  have 
concealed  from  the  congregation  five  minutes ;  in- 
deed, it  was  not  then  very  numerous,  the  assembly 
consisting  of  no  more  than  Adams,  his  clerk,  his  wife, 
the  lady,  and  one  of  her  servants.  At  her  return 
she  met  Slipslop,  who  accosted  her  in  these  words : 
—  "  O  meam,  what  doth  your  ladyship  think  ?  To 
be  sure,  lawyer  Scout  hath  carried  Joseph  and  Fanny 
both  before  the  justice.  All  the  parish  are  in  tears, 
and  sav  they  will  certainly  be  hanged  ;  for  nobody 
knows   what  it  is   for.""  —  "I  suppose  they  deserve 

[  no  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

it,"  says  the  lady.  "  What !  dost  thou  mention  such 
wretches  to  nie  ? "  —  "  O  dear  madam,''''  answered 
Slipslop,  "is  it  not  a  pity  such  a  graceless  young 
man  should  die  a  virulent  death  ?  I  hope  the  judge 
will  take  commensuration  on  his  youth.  As  for 
Fanny,  I  don''t  think  it  signifies  much  what  becomes 
of  her  ;  and  if  poor  Joseph  hath  done  anything,  I 
could  venture  to  swear  she  traduced  him  to  it :  few 
men  ever  come  to  a  fragrant  punishment,  but  by 
those  nasty  creatures,  who  are  a  scandal  to  our  sect.'' 
The  lady  was  no  more  pleased  at  this  news,  after 
a  momenfs  reflection,  than  Slipslop  herself ;  for, 
though  she  wished  Fanny  fiir  enough,  she  did  not 
desire  the  removal  of  Joseph,  especially  with  her. 
She  was  puzzled  how  to  act  or  what  to  say  on  this 
occasion,  when  a  coach  and  six  drove  into  the  court, 
and  a  servant  acquainted  her  with  the  arrival  of  her 
nephew  Booby  and  his  lady.  She  ordered  them  to 
be  conducted  into  a  drawing-room,  whither  she  pres- 
ently repaired,  having  composed  her  countenance  as 
well  as  she  could,  and  being  a  little  satisfied  that  the 
wedding  would  by  these  means  be  at  least  interrupted, 
and  that  she  should  have  an  opportunity  to  execute 
any  resolution  she  might  take,  for  which  she  saw 
herself  provided  with  an  excellent  instrument  in 
Scout. 

The  Lady  Booby  apprehended  her  servant  had 
made  a  mistake  when  he  mentioned  Mr.  Booby's 
lady ;  for  she  had  never  heard  of  his  marriage :  but 
how  great  was  her  surprize  when,  at  her  entering  the 
room,  her  nephew  presented  his  wife  to  her ;  saying, 
"  Madam,  this  is  that  charming  Pamela,  of  whom  I 

[180] 


MR.    BOOBY 

am  convinced  you  have  heard  so  much.'"'  The  lady 
received  her  with  more  civihty  than  he  expected ; 
indeed  witli  the  utmost ;  for  she  was  perfectly  polite, 
nor  had  any  vice  inconsistent  with  good-breeding. 
They  ptist  some  little  time  in  ordinary  discourse, 
when  a  servant  came  and  whispered  Mr.  Booby,  who 
presently  told  the  ladies  he  must  desert  them  a  little 
on  some  business  of  consequence ;  and,  as  their  dis- 
course during  his  absence  would  afford  little  improve- 
ment or  entertainment  to  the  reader,  we  will  leave 
them  for  a  while  to  attend  Mr.  Booby. 


[1811 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

CONTAINING  JUSTICE  BUSINESS  ;  CURIOUS  PRECEDENTS  OP 
DEPOSITIONS,  AND  OTHER  MATTERS  NECESSARY  TO 
BE  PERUSED  BY  ALL  JUSTICES  OF  THE  PEACE  AND 
THEIR   CLERKS. 

THE  young  squire  and  his  lady  were  no 
sooner  alighted  from  their  coach  than 
the  servants  began  to  in(|uire  after  Mr. 
Joseph,  from  whom  they  said  their  lady 
had  not  heard  a  word,  to  her  great  surprize,  since 
he  had  left  Lady  Booby's.  Upon  this  they  were 
instantly  informed  of  what  had  lately  happened, 
with  which  they  hastily  ac(]uainted  their  master, 
who  took  an  immediate  resolution  to  go  himself,  and 
endeavour  to  restore  his  Pamela  her  brother,  before 
she  even  knew  she  had  lost  him. 

The  justice  before  whom  the  criminals  were  carried, 
and  who  lived  within  a  short  mile  of  the  lady's  house, 
was  luckily  Mr.  Booby's  acquaintance,  by  his  having 
an  estate  in  his  neighbourhood.  Ordering  therefore 
his  horses  to  his  coach,  he  set  out  for  the  judgment- 
seat,  and  an'ived  when  the  justice  had  almost  finished 
his  business.  He  was  conducted  into  a  hall,  where 
he  was  acquainted  that  his  worship  would  wait  on 
him  in  a  moment;  for  he  had  only  a  man  and  a 
woman  to  commit  to  Bridewell  first.     As  he  was  now 

[182] 


A    CURIOUS    DEPOSITION 

convinced  he  had  not  a  minute  to  lose,  he  insisted 
on  the  servant's  introducing  him  directly  into  the 
room  where  the  justice  was  then  executing  his  office, 
as  he  called  it.  Being  brought  thither,  and  the  first 
compliments  being  passed  between  the  squire  and 
his  worship,  the  former  asked  the  latter  what  crime 
those  two  young  people  had  been  guilty  of?  "  No 
great  crime,"  answered  the  justice ;  "  I  have  only 
ordered  them  to  Bridewell  for  a  month.'"  "  But  what 
is  their  crime.?"  repeated  the  squire.  "Larceny, 
an't  please  your  honour,"  said  Scout.  "  Ay,"  says 
the  justice,  "a  kind  of  felonious  larcenous  thing, 
I  believe  I  must  order  them  a  little  correction  too,  a 
little  stripping  and  whipping."  (Poor  Fanny,  who 
had  hitherto  supported  all  with  the  thoughts  of 
Joseph's  company,  trembled  at  that  sound ;  but, 
indeed,  without  reason,  for  none  but  the  devil  him- 
self would  have  executed  such  a  sentence  on  her.) 
"  Still,"  said  the  squire,  "  I  am  ignorant  of  the 
crime  —  the  fact  I  mean."  "  Why,  there  it  is  in 
peaper,"  answered  the  justice,  showing  him  a  deposi- 
tion which,  in  the  absence  of  his  clerk,  he  had  writ 
himself,  of  which  we  have  with  great  difficulty  pro- 
cured an  authentic  copy  ;  and  here  it  follows  verbatim 
et  literatim :  — 

The  dcpusition  of  James  Scout,  Im/er,  and  Tliomas  Trotter, 
yeoman,  taken  fjefore  mce,  one  of  his  magesti/s  Just- 
asses  of  the  piece  for  Zumersetshire. 

"  These  deponants  saith,  and  first  Thomas  Trotter  for 
himself  saith,  that  on  the  of  tliis  instant  October, 

being  Sabbath-day,  betwin  the  ours  of  2  and  4  in  the 

[183  1 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

afternoon,  he  zeed  Joseph  Andrews  and  Francis  Good- 
will walk  akross  a  certane  felde  belun<iring  to  layer 
Scout,  and  out  of  the  path  which  ledes  thru  the  said 
felde,  and  there  he  zede  Joseph  Andrews  with  a  nife 
cut  one  hassel  twig,  of  the  value,  as  he  believes,  of 
three  half-pence,  or  thereabouts  ;  and  he  saith  that  the 
said  Francis  Goodwill  was  likewise  walking  on  the 
grass  out  of  the  said  path  in  the  said  felde,  and  did 
receive  and  karry  in  her  hand  the  said  twig,  and  so  was 
cumfarting,  eading,  and  abatting  to  the  said  Joseph 
therein.  And  the  said  James  Scout  for  himself  says 
that  he  verily  believes  the  said  twig  to  be  his  own 
proper  twig,"  &e. 

"  Jesu  !"  said  the  squire,  "would  you  commit  two 
persons  to  Bridewell  for  a  twig  ? ""  "  Yes,""  said  the 
lawyer,  "  and  with  great  lenity  too ;  for  if  we  had 
called  it  a  young  tree,  they  would  have  been  both 
hanged.'"  "  Harkee,""  says  the  justice,  taking  aside 
the  squire ;  "  I  should  not  have  been  so  severe  on 
this  occasion,  but  Lady  Booby  desires  to  get  them 
out  of  the  parish ;  so  lawyer  Scout  will  give  the  con- 
stable orders  to  let  them  run  away,  if  they  please, 
but  it  seems  they  intend  to  mai-ry  together,  and  the 
lady  hath  no  other  means,  as  they  are  legally  settled 
there,  to  prevent  their  bringing  an  incumbrance  on 
her  own  parish."  "  Well,"  said  the  squire,  "  I  will 
take  care  my  aunt  shall  be  satisfied  in  this  point ; 
and  likewise  I  promise  you,  Joseph  here  shall  never 
be  any  incumbrance  on  her.  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
you,  therefore,  if,  instead  of  Biidewell,  you  will  com- 
mit them  to  my  custody."  "O!  to  be  sure,  sir,  if 
you  desire    it,"  answered  the  justice;    and  without 

[184] 


THE    RELEASE 

more  ado  Joseph  and  Fanny  were  delivered  over  to 
Squire  Booby,  whom  Joseph  very  well  knew,  but 
httle  guessed  how  nearly  he  was  related  to  him. 
The  justice  burnt  his  mittimus,  the  constable  was 
sent  about  his  business,  the  lawyer  made  no  complaint 
for  want  of  justice  ;  and  the  prisoners,  with  exulting 
hearts,  srave  a  thousand  thanks  to  his  honour  Mr. 
Booby ;  who  did  not  intend  their  obligations  to  him 
should  cease  here ;  for,  ordering  his  man  to  produce 
a  cloak-bag,  which  he  had  caused  to  be  brought  from 
Lady  Booby's  on  purpose,  he  desired  the  justice  that 
he  might  have  Joseph  with  him  into  a  room  ;  where, 
orderin<r  his  servant  to  take  out  a  suit  of  his  own 
clothes,  with  linnen  and  other  necessaries,  he  left 
Joseph  to  dress  himself,  who,  not  yet  knowing  the 
cause  of  all  this  civility,  excused  his  accepting  such  a 
favour  as  long  as  decently  he  could.  Whilst  Joseph 
was  dressing,  the  scpiire  repaired  to  the  justice,  whom 
he  found  talking  with  Fanny  ;  for,  during  the  exam- 
ination, she  had  flopped  her  hat  over  her  eyes,  which 
were  also  bathed  in  tears,  and  had  by  that  means 
concealed  from  his  worship  what  might  perhaps  have 
rendered  the  arrival  of  Mr,  Booby  unnecessary,  at 
least  for  herself.  The  justice  no  sooner  saw  her 
countenance  cleared  up,  and  her  bright  eyes  shining 
through  her  tears,  than  he  secretly  cursed  himself 
for  havinjx  once  thouy;ht  of  Bridewell  for  her.  He 
would  willingly  have  sent  his  own  wife  thither,  to 
have  had  Fanny  in  her  place.  And,  conceiving 
almost  at  the  same  instant  desires  and  schemes  to 
accomplish  them,  he  employed  the  minutes  whilst 
the  squire  was  absent  with  Joseph  in  assuring  her 

[185] 


JOSErH    ANDREWS 

how  sorry  he  was  for  having  treated  her  so  rouglily 
before  he  knew  her  merit ;  and  told  her,  that  since 
Lady  Booby  was  unwilHng  that  she  should  settle  in 
her  parish,  she  was  heartily  welcome  to  his,  where  he 
promised  her  his  protection,  adding  that  he  would 
take  Joseph  and  her  into  his  own  family,  if  she  liked 
it ;  which  assurance  he  confirmed  with  a  squeeze  by 
the  hand.  She  thanked  him  very  kindly,  and  said, 
"  She  would  acquaint  Joseph  with  the  offer,  which 
he  would  certainly  be  glad  to  accept ;  for  that  Lady 
Booby  was  angry  with  them  both  ;  though  she  did 
not  know  either  had  done  anything  to  offend  her, 
but  imputed  it  to  Madam  Slipslop,  who  had  always 
been  her  enemy.'' 

The  squire  now  returned,  and  prevented  any  farther 
continuance  of  this  conversation  ;  and  the  justice, 
out  of  a  pretended  respect  to  his  guest,  but  in 
reality  from  an  apprehension  of  a  rival  (for  he 
knew  nothing  of  his  marriage),  ordered  Fanny  into 
the  kitchen,  whither  she  gladly  retired ;  nor  did  the 
squire,  who  declined  the  trouble  of  explaining  the 
whole  matter,  oppose  it. 

It  would  be  unnecessary,  if  I  was  able,  which  indeed 
I  am  not,  to  relate  the  conversation  between  these 
two  gentlemen,  which  rolled,  as  I  have  been  informed, 
entirely  on  the  subject  of  horse-racing.  Joseph  was 
soon  drest  in  the  plainest  dress  he  could  find,  which 
was  a  blue  coat  and  breeches,  with  a  gold  edging,  and 
a  red  waistcoat  with  the  same  :  and  as  this  suit,  which 
was  rather  too  large  for  the  scjuire,  exactly  fitted 
him,  so  he  became  it  so  well,  and  looked  so  genteel, 
that  no  person  would  have  doubted  its  being  as  well 

[186] 


THE    DRIVE    HOME 

adapted  to  his  quality  as  his  shape ;  nor  have  sus- 
pected, as  one  niiglit,  when  my  Lord ,  or  Sir 

,  or   Mr.  ,  appear  in   lace  or  embroidery, 

that  the  taylors  man  wore  those  clothes  home  on 
his  back  which  he  should  have  carried  under  his 
arm. 

The  squire  now  took  leave  of  the  justice;  and, 
calling  for  Fanny,  made  her  and  Joseph,  against  their 
wills,  get  into  the  coach  with  him,  which  he  then 
ordered  to  drive  to  Lady  Booby's.  It  had  moved  a 
few  yards  only,  when  the  squire  asked  Joseph  if  he 
knew  who  that  man  was  crossing  the  field  ;  for,  added 
he,  I  never  saw  one  take  such  strides  before.  Joseph 
answered  eagerly,  "  O,  sir,  it  is  parson  Adams  ! " 
"  O  la,  indeed,  and  so  it  is,"  said  Fanny  ;  "  poor  man, 
he  is  coming  to  do  what  he  could  for  us.  Well, 
he  is  the  worthiest,  best-natured  creature."  —  "  Ay," 
said  Joseph  ;  "  God  bless  him  !  for  there  is  not  such 
another  in  the  universe."  "  The  best  creature  living 
sure,"  cries  Fanny.  "  Is  he  ?"  says  the  squire  ;  "then 
I  am  resolved  to  have  the  best  creature  living  in  my 
coach  ; "  and  so  saying,  he  ordered  it  to  stop,  whilst 
Joseph,  at  his  request,  hallowed  to  the  parson,  who, 
well  knowing  his  voice,  made  all  the  haste  imaginable, 
and  soon  came  up  with  them.  He  was  desired  by 
the  master,  who  could  scarce  refrain  from  laughter 
at  his  figure,  to  mount  into  the  coach,  which  he  with 
many  thanks  refused,  saying  he  could  walk  by  its 
side,  and  he  \\  warrant  he  kept  up  with  it ;  but  he 
was  at  length  over-prevailed  on.  The  squire  now 
actjuainted  Joseph  with  his  marriage ;  but  he  might 
have   spared   himself  that  labour  ;   for  his   servant, 

[187] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

whilst  Joseph  was  dressing,  had  performed  that  office 
before.  lie  continued  to  express  the  vast  happiness 
he  enjoyed  in  his  sister,  and  the  vahie  he  liad  for 
all  who  belonged  to  her,  Joseph  made  many  bows, 
and  exprest  as  many  acknowledgments  :  and  parson 
Adams,  who  now  first  perceived  Joseph's  new  apparel, 
burst  ijito  tears  with  joy,  and  fell  to  rubbing  his 
hands  and  snapping  his  fingers  as  if  he  had  been 
mad. 

They  were  now  arrived  at  the  Lady  Booby's,  and 
the  squire,  desiring  them  to  wait  a  moment  in  the 
court,  walked  in  to  his  aunt,  and  calling  her  out  from 
his  wife,  acquainted  her  with  Jose})h\s  arrival ;  saying, 
"  Madam,  as  I  have  married  a  virtuous  and  worthy 
woman,  I  am  resolved  to  own  her  relations,  and  show 
them  all  a  proper  respect ;  I  shall  think  myself 
therefore  infinitely  obliged  to  all  mine  who  will  do 
the  same.  It  is  true,  her  brother  hath  been  your 
servant,  but  he  is  now  become  my  brother ;  and  I 
have  one  happiness,  that  neither  his  character,  his 
behaviour,  or  appearance,  give  me  any  reason  to 
be  ashamed  of  calling  him  so.  In  short,  he  is  now 
below,  dressed  like  a  gentleman,  in  which  light  I 
intend  he  shall  hereafter  be  seen  ;  and  you  will  oblige 
me  beyond  expression  if  you  will  admit  him  to  be 
of  our  party ;  for  I  know  it  will  give  great  pleasure 
to  my  wife,  though  she  will  not  mention  it," 

This  was  a  stroke  of  fortune  beyond  the  Lady 
Booby's  hopes  or  expectation ;  she  answered  him 
eagerly,  "  Nephew,  you  know  how  easily  I  am  pre- 
vailed on  to  do  anything  which  Joseph  Andrews 
desires  —  Phoo,  I  mean  which  vou  desire  me ;  and, 

[188j    ' 


THE    SQUIRE  S    INTERCESSION 

as  he  is  now  your  relation,  I  cannot  refuse  to  enter- 
tain him  as  sucli.''"'  The  scjuire  told  her  he  knew  his 
obligation  to  her  for  her  compliance  ;  and  going 
three  steps,  returned  and  told  her  —  he  had  one  more 
favour,  which  he  believed  she  would  easily  grant,  as 
she  had  accorded  him  the  former.  "  There  is  a  young 
\v  oman  —  "  —  "  Nephew,'*'  says  she,  "  don't  let  my 
good-nature  make  you  desire,  as  is  too  commonly 
the  case,  to  impose  on  me.  Nor  think,  because  I 
have  with  so  much  condescension  agreed  to  suffer 
your  brother-in-law  to  come  to  my  table,  that  I  will 
submit  to  the  company  of  all  my  own  servants,  and 
all  the  dirtv  trollops  in  the  country.""  "  Madam," 
answered  the  stjuire,  "  I  believe  you  never  saw  this 
young  creatiu'e.  I  never  beheld  such  sweetness  and 
innocence  joined  with  such  beauty,  and  withal  so 
genteel."  "Upon  my  soul  I  won't  admit  her,'" 
replied  the  lady  in  a  passion  ;  "  the  w  hole  world 
shan''t  prevail  on  me  ;  I  resent  even  the  desire  as  an 
afl'ront,  and ''''  The  squire,  who  knew  her  in- 
flexibility, interrupted  her,  by  asking  pardon,  and 
promising  not  to  mention  it  more.  He  then  returned 
to  Joseph,  and  she  to  Pamela.  He  took  Joseph 
aside,  and  told  him  he  would  carry  him  to  his  sister, 
but  could  not  prevail  as  yet  for  Fanny.  Joseph 
begged  that  he  might  see  his  sister  alone,  and  then 
be  with  his  Fanny  ;  but  the  squire,  knowing  the 
pleasure  liis  wife  would  have  in  her  brother''s  con)pany, 
would  not  admit  it,  telling  Joseph  there  would  he 
nothing  in  so  short  an  absence  from  Fanny,  whilst 
he  was  assured  of  her  safety  ;  adding,  he  hoped  he 
could  not  so  easily  quit  a  sister  whom   he  had  not 

[189] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

seen  so  long,  and  who  so  tenderly  loved  him.  Joseph 
immediately  complied  ;  for  indeed  no  brother  could 
love  a  sister  more ;  and,  recommending  Fanny,  who 
rejoiced  that  she  was  not  to  go  before  Lady  ISooby, 
to  the  care  of  Mr.  Adams,  he  attended  the  squire 
upstairs,  whilst  Fanny  repaired  with  the  parson  to 
his  house,  where  she  thought  herself  secure  of  a  kind 
reception. 


[190] 


CHAPTER    SIX 

OF   WHICH    YOU   ARE    DESIRED   TO  READ    NO    MORE   THAN 

YOU    LIKE. 

THE  meeting  1  i^vcen  Joseph  and  Pamela 
was  not  without  tears  of  joy  on  both 
sides;  and  thei  ■  embraces  were  full  of 
tenderness  and  affection.  They  were, 
however,  regarded  with  much  jiioie  pleasure  by  the 
nephew  than  by  the  aunt,  to  whose  flame  they  were 
fuel  only  ;  and  this  was  increased  by  the  addition  of 
dress,  which  was  indeed  not  wanted  to  set  off  the 
lively  colours  in  which  Nature  had  drawn  health, 
strength,  comeliness,  and  youth.  In  the  afternoon 
Joseph,  at  their  request,  entertained  them  with  an 
account  of  his  adventures :  nor  could  Lady  Booby 
conceal  her  dissatisfaction  at  those  parts  in  which 
Fanny  was  concerned,  especially  when  Mr.  Booby 
launched  forth  into  such  rapturous  praises  of  her 
beauty.  She  said,  applying  to  her  niece,  that  she 
wondered  her  nephew,  who  had  pretended  to  marry 
for  love,  should  think  such  a  subject  proper  to  amuse 
his  wife  with ;  adding,  that,  for  her  part,  she  should 
be  jealous  of  a  husband  who  spoke  so  warmly  in 
praise  of  another  woman.  Pamela  answered,  indeed, 
she  thought  she  had  cause ;  but  it  was  an  instance 
of  Mr,  Booby ""s  aptness  to  see  more  beauty  in  women 

[  191  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

than  they  were  mistresses  of.     At  which  words  both 
the  women  fixed   their  eyes  on  two  looking-glasses  ; 
and    Lady   Booby   replied,   that    men    were,   in    the 
general,  very  ill  judges  of  beauty  ;  and  then,  whilst 
both  contemplated  only  their  own  faces,  they  paid  a 
cross  compliment  to  each  other's  charms.     When  the 
hour  of  rest  approached,  which  the  lady  of  the  house 
deferred  as  long  as  decently  she  could,  she  informed 
Joseph    (whom    for   the    future    we   shall    call    Mr. 
Joseph,  he  having  as  good  a  title  to  that  appellation 
as  many  others  —  I  mean  that  incontested  one  of 
good  clothes)  that  she  had  ordered  a  bed  to  be  pro- 
vided for  him.      He  declined  this  ffxvour  to  his  ut- 
most ;  for  his  heart  had  long  been  with  his  Fanny  ; 
but  she  insisted  on  his  accepting  it,  alledging  that 
the  parish  had  no  proper  acconnnodation  for  such  a 
person  as  he  was  now  to  esteem  himself.     The  squire 
and  his  lady  both  joining  with  her,  Mr.  Joseph  was 
at   last   forced    to  give  over   his  design  of  visiting 
Fanny  that  evening  ;  who,  on  her  side,  as  impatiently 
expected  him  till  midnight,  when,  in  complacence  to 
Mr.  Adams's  fjunily,  who  had  sat  up  two  hours  out 
of  respect  to  her,  she  retired  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep  ; 
the  thoughts  of  her  love  kept  her  waking,  and  his 
not  returning  according  to  his  promise  filled  her  with 
uneasiness ;  of  which,  however,  she  could  not  assign 
any  other  cause  than  merely  that  of  being  absent 
from  him. 

Mr.  Joseph  rose  early  in  the  morning,  and  visited 
her  in  whom  his  soul  delighted.  She  no  sooner  heard 
his  voice  in  the  parson's  parlour  than  she  leapt  from 
her  bed,  and,  dressing  herself  in  a  few  minutes,  went 

I  192  J 


SLANDER 

down  to  him.  They  passed  two  hours  with  inexpres- 
sible happiness  together ;  and  then,  having  appointed 
Monday,  by  Mr.  Adams's  permission,  for  their  mar- 
riage, Mr.  Joseph  returned,  accorthng  to  his  promise, 
to  breakfast  at  the  Lady  Booby's,  with  whose  be- 
haviour, since  the  evening,  we  shall  now  acquaint  the 
reader. 

She  was  no  sooner  retired  to  her  chamljer  than  she 
asked  Slipslop  "  What  she  thought  of  this  wonderful 
creature  her  nephew  had  married  ?  "  —  "  Madam  ?  *" 
said  Slipslop,  not  yet  sufficiently  understanding  what 
answer  she  was  to  make.  "  I  ask  you,"  answered  the 
ladv,  "  what  you  think  of  the  dowdy,  my  niece,  I 
think  I  am  to  call  her?"  Slipslop,  wanting  no 
further  hint,  began  to  pull  her  to  pieces,  and  so 
miserably  defaced  her,  that  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible for  any  one  to  have  known  the  person.  The 
lady  gave  her  all  the  assistance  she  could,  and  ended 
with  saying,  "  I  think.  Slipslop,  you  have  done  her 
justice;  but  yet,  bad  as  she  is,  she  is  an  angel  com- 
pared to  this  Fanny."  Slipslop  then  fell  on  Fanny, 
whom  she  hacked  and  hewed  in  the  like  barbarous 
manner,  concluding  with  an  observation  that  there 
was  always  something  in  those  low-life  creatures 
wliich  must  eternally  extinguish  them  from  their 
betters.  "  Really,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  think  there  is 
one  exception  to  your  rule  ;  I  am  certain  you  may 
guess  who  I  mean."  — "  Not  I,  upon  my  word, 
madam,"  said  Slipslop.  "  I  mean  a  young  fellow  ; 
sure  you  are  the  dullest  wretch,"  said  tlie  lady.  "  O 
la!  I  am  indeed.  Yes,  truly,  madam,  he  is  an 
accession,"  answered  Slipslop.  "  Ay,  is  he  not,  Slip- 
vox,.  II.  -  13  [  193  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

slop  ? "  returned  the  lady.     "  Is  he  not  so  genteel  that 
a  prince  might,  without  a  blush,  acknowledge  him  for 
his    son  ?     His    behaviour  is  such    that    would    not 
shame  the    best    education.      He    borrows  from    his 
station  a  condescension  in  everything  to  his  superiors, 
yet   unattended    by    that    mean    servility    which    is 
called  good  behaviour  in  such  pei'sons.     Everything 
he  doth  hath  no  mark  of  the  base  motive  of  fear,  but 
visibly  .shows  some  respect  and  gratitude,  and  carries 
with   it  the  persuasion  of  love.     And  then  for  his 
virtues :  such  piety  to  his  parents,  such  tender  affec- 
tion to    his  sister,  such  integrity  in  his  friendship, 
such  bravery,  such   goodness,  that,  if  he  had  been 
born    a   gentleman,  his  wife   would    have    possessed 
the    most    invaluable    blessing."  —  "To     be    sure, 
ma'am,"  says  Slipslop.     "  But  as  he  is,"  answered  the 
lady,  "  if  he  had  a  thousand  more  good  (jualities,  it 
must  render  a  woman  of  fashion  contemptible  even 
to  be  suspected  of  thinking  of  him  ;  yes,  I  should 
despise  myself  for  such  a  thought."  —  "  To  be  sure, 
ma'am,"  said   Slipslop.      "And    why  to   be  sure.?" 
replied  the  lady  ;  "  thou  art  always  one's  echo.     Is 
he  not  more  worthy  of  affection  than  a  dirty  country 
clown,  though  boi-n  of  a  family  as  old  as  the  flood  ? 
or  an  idle  worthless  rake,  or  little   puisny  beau  of 
quality  ?     And  yet  these  we  must  condemn  ourselves 
to,  in  order  to  avoid  the  censure  of  the  world  ;  to 
shun  the  contempt  of  others,  we  must  ally  ourselves 
to  those  we  despise ;  we  must  prefer  birth,  title,  and 
fortune,  to  real  merit.     It  is  a  tyranny  of  custom,  a 
tyranny  we   nnist    comply  with;  for    we    people    of 
fashion  are  the  slaves  of  custom."  —  "Marry  come 

[  194] 


DISCUSSION    OF    MARRIAGE 

up  ! "  said  Slipslop,  who  now  knew  well  which  party 
to  take.  "  If  I  was  a  woman  of  your  ladyship's 
fortune  and  quality,  I  would  be  a  slave  to  nobody." 
—  "  Me,"  said  the  lady  ;  "  I  am  speaking  if  a  young 
woman  of  fashion,  who  had  seen  nothing  of  the  world, 
should  happen  to  like  such  a  fellow.  —  Me,  indeed  ! 
I  hope  thou  dost  not  imagine  —  "  —  "  No,  ma'am,  to 
be  sure,"  cries  Slipslop.  "  No  !  what  no 't "  cried  the 
lady.  '*•  Thou  art  always  ready  to  answer  before  thou 
hast  heard  one.  So  far  I  must  allow  he  is  a  charm- 
ing fellow.  Me,  indeed  !  No,  Slipslop,  all  thoughts 
of  men  are  over  with  me.  I  have  lost  a  husband 
who  —  but  if  I  should  reflect  I  should  run  mad.  My 
future  ease  must  depend  upon  forgetfulness.  Slipslop, 
let  me  hear  some  of  thy  nonsense,  to  turn  my 
thoughts  another  way.  What  dost  thou  think  of  Mr. 
Andrews  .? "  —  "  Why,  I  think,"  says  Slipslop,  "  he  is 
the  handsomest,  most  properest  man  I  ever  saw  ;  and 
if  I  was  a  lady  of  the  greatest  degree  it  would  be  well 
for  some  folks.  Your  ladyship  may  talk  of  custom, 
if  you  please  :  but  I  am  confidous  there  is -no  more 
comparison  between  young  Mr.  Andrews  and  most 
of  the  young  gentlemen  who  come  to  your  ladyship's 
house  in  London  ;  a  parcel  of  whipper-snapper  sparks : 
I  would  sooner  marry  our  old  [)arson  Adams.  Never 
tell  me  what  people  say,  whilst  I  am  happy  in  the 
arms  of  him  I  love.  Some  folks  rail  against  other 
folks  because  other  folks  have  what  some  folks  would 
be  glad  of."  —  "  And  so,"  answered  the  lady,  "  if  you 
was  a  woman  of  condition,  you  would  really  marry 
Mr.  Andrews  .? "  —  "  Yes,  I  assure  your  ladyship," 
replied  Slipslop,  "if  he  would  have  me."  —  "Fool, 

[195] 


JOSEPH    AxNDREWS 

idiot ! ''  cries  the  lady  ;  "  if  he  would  have  a  woman  of 
fashion  !  is  that  a  question  ? ""  —  "  No,  truly,  madam,''' 
said  Slipslop,  "  I  believe  it  would  be  none  if  Fanny 
was  out  of  the  way  ;  and  I  am  confidous,  if  I  was  in 
your  ladyship's  place,  and  liked  Mr.  Joseph  Andrews, 
she  should  not  stay  in  the  parish  a  moment.  I  am 
sure  lawyer  Scout  would  send  her  packing  if  your 
ladyship  would  but  say  the  Avord.""  This  last  speech 
of  Slij)slop  raised  a  tempest  in  the  mind  of  her 
mistress.  She  feared  Scout  had  betrayed  her,  or 
rather  that  she  had  betrayed  herself.  After  some 
silence,  and  a  double  change  of  her  complexion,  Mrst 
to  pale  and  then  to  red,  she  thus  spoke :  "  I  am  as- 
tonished at  the  liberty  you  give  your  tojiguc.  Would 
you  insinuate  that  I  employed  Scout  against  this 
wench  on  account  of  the  fellow  ? ""  —  "  La,  ma'am,"''' 
said  Slipslo}),  frighted  out  of  her  wits,  "  I  assassinate 
such  a  thing  ! '''' —  "I  think  you  dare  not,'"'  answered  the 
lady ;  "  I  believe  my  conduct  may  defy  malice  itself  to 
assert  so  cursed  a  slander.  If  I  had  ever  discovered  any 
wantonness,  any  lightness  in  my  behaviour ;  if  I  had 
followed  theexample  of  some  whom  thou  hast,I  believe, 
seen,  in  allowing  myself  indecent  liberties,  even  with  a 
husband  ;  but  the  dear  man  who  is  gone ""  (here  she 
began  to  sob},  "  was  he  alive  again ""  (then  she  pro- 
duced tears),  "  could  not  upbraid  me  with  any  one 
act  of  tenderness  or  passion.  No,  Slipslop,  all  the 
time  I  cohabited  with  him  he  never  obtained  even  a 
kiss  from  me  without  my  expressing  reluctance  in  the 
granting  it.  I  am  sure  he  hin)self  never  suspected 
how  much  I  loved  him.  Since  his  death,  thou  knovv- 
est,  though  it  is  almost  six  weeks  (it  wants  but  a 

[196] 


PRAISES    OF    JOSEPH 

day)  ago,  I  have  not  admitted  one  visitor  till  this  fool 
my  nephew  arrived.  I  have  confined  myself  quite  to 
one  party  of  friends.  And  can  such  a  conduct  as 
this  fear  to  be  arraigned  ?  To  be  accused,  not  only 
of  a  passion  which  I  have  always  despised,  but  of 
fixing  it  on  such  an  object,  a  creature  so  much  be- 
neath my  notice  !  "  —  "  Upon  my  word,  ma'am,'"  says 
Slipslop,  "  I  do  not  understand  your  ladyshi[) ;  nor 
know  I  anything  of  the  matter."  —  "I  believe  indeed 
thou  dost  not  understand  me.  Those  are  delicacies 
which  exist  only  in  superior  minds  ;  thy  coarse  ideas 
cannot  comprehend  them.  Thou  art  alow  creature, 
of  the  Andrews  breed,  a  reptile  of  a  lower  order, 
a  weed  that  grows  in  the  common  garden  of  the 
creation." —  "  I  assure  your  ladyship,"  says  Slipslop, 
whose  passions  were  almost  of  as  high  an  order  as  her 
lady's,  "  I  have  no  more  to  do  with  Conmion  Garden 
than  other  folks.  Really,  your  ladyship  talks  of 
servants  as  if  they  were  not  born  of  the  Christian 
specious.  Servants  liave  flesh  and  blood  as  well  as 
quality  ;  and  Mr.  Andrews  himself  is  a  proof  that 
they  have  as  good,  if  not  better.  And  for  my  own 
part,  I  can't  perceive  my  dears  ^  are  coarser  than 
other  people's ;  and  I  am  sure,  if  Mr.  Andrews  was 
a  dear  of  mine,  I  should  not  be  ashamed  of  him 
in  company  with  gentlemen  ;  for  whoever  hath 
seen  him  in  his  new  clothes  must  confess  he  looks  as 
much  like  a  gentleman  as  anybody.  Coarse,  quotha  ! 
I  can't  bear  to  hear  the  poor  young  fellow  run  down 
neither ;  for  I  will  say  this,  I  never  heard  him  say  an  ill 
word  of  anybody  in  his  life.  I  am  sure  his  coarseness 
1  Meaning  perhaps  ideas. 

[197] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

doth  not  lie  in  his  heart,  for  he  is  the  best-natured 
man  in  the  world  ;  and  as  for  his  skin,  it  is  no  coarser 
than  other  |)eo[)le\s,  I  am  sure.  His  bosom,  when  a 
boy,  was  as  white  as  driven  snow;  and,  where  it  is 
not  covered  with  hairs,  is  so  still.  Ifakins !  if  I  was 
Mrs.  Andrews,  with  a  hundred  a  year,  I  should  not 
envy  the  best  she  who  wears  a  head.  A  woman  that 
could  not  be  happy  with  such  a  man  ought  never  to 
be  so ;  for  if  he  can't  make  a  woman  happy,  I  never 
yet  beheld  the  man  who  could.  I  say  again,  I  wish 
I  was  a  great  lady  for  his  sake.  I  believe,  when  I 
had  made  a  gentleman  of  him,  he  VI  behave  so  that 
nobody  should  deprecate  what  I  had  done;  and  I 
fancy  few  would  venture  to  tell  him  he  was  no  gentle- 
man to  his  face,  nor  to  mine  neither."  At  which 
words,  taking  up  the  candles,  she  asked  her  mistress, 
who  had  been  some  time  in  her  bed,  if  she  had  any 
farther  commands.^  who  mildly  answered,  she  had 
none ;  and,  telling  her  she  was  a  comical  creature, 
bid  her  good-night. 


[198  J 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

PHILOSOPHICAL  REFLECTIONS,  THE  LIKE  NOT  TO  BE  FOUND 
IN  ANY  LIGHT  FRENCH  ROMANCE.  MR.  BOOBY''s 
GRAVE  ADVICE  TO  JOSEPH,  AND  FANNY's  EN- 
COUNTER   WITH    A    BEAU. 

ABIT,  my  good  reader,  hath  so  vast  a 
prevalence  over  the  human  mind,  that 
there  is  scarce  anything  too  strange  or 
too  strong  to  be  asserted  of  it.  The 
story  of  the  miser,  who,  from  long  accustoming  to 
cheat  others,  came  at  last  to  cheat  himself,  and  with 
great  delight  and  triumph  picked  his  own  pocket  of 
a  truinea  to  convey  to  his  hoard,  is  not  impossible  or 
improbable.  In  like  manner  it  fares  with  the  prac- 
tisers  of  deceit,  who,  from  having  long  deceived  their 
acquaintance,  gain  at  last  a  power  of  deceiving  them- 
selves, and  acquire  that  vei-y  opinion  (however  false) 
of  their  own  abilities,  excellencies,  and  virtues,  into 
which  they  have  for  years  perhaps  endeavoured  to 
betray  their  neighbours.  Now,  reader,  to  apply  this 
observation  to  my  present  purpose,  thou  must  know, 
that  as  the  passion  generally  called  love  exercises  most 
of  the  talents  of  the  female  or  fair  world,  so  in  this  they 
now  and  then  discover  a  small  inclination  to  deceit ; 
for  which  thou  wilt  not  be  angry  with  the  beautiful 
creatures   when   thou   hast    considered   that    at    the 

[199] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

age  of  seven,  or  something  earlier,  miss  is  instructed 
by  her  mother  that  master  is  a  very  monstrous  kind 
of  animal,  who  will,  if  she  suffers  him  to  come  too 
near  her,  infallibly  eat  her  up  and  grind  her  to  pieces  : 
that,  so  far  from  kissing  or  toying  with  him  of  her 
own  accord,  she  must  not  admit  him  to  kiss  or 
toy  with  her  :  and,  lastly,  that  she  must  never  have 
any  affection  towards  him  ;  for  if  she  should,  all  her 
fi-iends  in  petticoats  would  esteem  her  a  traitress, 
point  at  her,  and  hunt  her  out  of  their  society. 
These  impressions,  being  first  received,  are  farther 
and  deeper  inculcated  by  their  school-mistresses  and 
companions ;  so  that  by  the  age  of  ten  they  have 
contracted  such  a  dread  and  abhorrence  of  the  above- 
named  monster,  that  whenever  they  see  him  they  fly 
from  him  as  the  innocent  hai'e  doth  from  the  grey- 
hound. Hence,  to  the  age  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  they 
entertain  a  mighty  antipathy  to  master  ;  they  resolve, 
and  fre(|uently  profess,  that  they  will  never  have  any 
commerce  with  him,  and  entertain  fond  hopes  of 
passing  their  lives  out  of  his  reach,  of  the  possibility 
of  which  they  have  so  visible  an  example  in  their 
good  maiden  aunt.  But  when  they  arrive  at  this 
period,  and  have  now  passed  their  second  climacteric, 
when  their  wisdom,  grown  riper,  begins  to  see  a  little 
forther,  and,  from  almost  daily  falling  in  master's 
way,  to  apprehend  the  great  difficulty  of  keeping  out 
of  it ;  and  when  they  observe  him  look  often  at  them, 
and  sometimes  very  eagerly  and  earnestly  top  (for 
the  monster  seldom  takes  any  notice  of  them  till  at 
this  age),  they  then  begin  to  think  of  their  danger; 
and,  as  they  perceive  they  cainiot  easily  avoid  him, 

[  200  1 


SELF-DECEPTION 

the  wiser  part  bethink  themselves  of  provichng  })y 
other  means  for  their  security.  They  endeavour,  by 
all  methods  they  can  invent,  to  render  themselves  so 
amiable  in  his  eyes,  that  he  may  have  no  inclination 
to  hurt  them  ;  in  which  they  generally  succeed  so  well, 
that  his  eyes,  by  frequent  languishing,  soon  lessen 
their  idea  of  his  fierceness,  and  so  far  abate  their 
fears,  that  they  venture  to  parley  with  him  ;  and 
when  they  perceive  him  so  different  from  what  he 
hath  been  described,  all  gentleness,  softness,  kind- 
ness, tenderness,  fondness,  their  dreadful  apprehen- 
sions vanish  in  a  moment ;  and  now  (it  being  usual 
with  the  human  mind  to  skip  from  one  extreme  to  its 
opposite,  as  easily,  and  almost  as  suddenly,  as  a  bird 
from  one  bough  to  another)  love  instantly  succeeds  to 
fear:  but,  as  it  happens  to  persons  who  have  in  their 
infancy  been  thoroughly  frightened  with  certain  no- 
persons  called  ghosts,  that  they  retain  their  dread  of 
those  beings  after  they  are  convinced  that  there  are 
no  such  things,  so  these  young  ladies,  though  they  no 
longer  appi-ehend  devouring,  cannot  so  entirely  shake 
off  all  that  hath  been  instilled  into  them;  they  still 
entertain  the  idea  of  that  censure  which  was  so 
strongly  imprinted  on  their  tender  minds,  to  which 
the  declarations  of  abhorrence  they  every  day  hear 
from  their  companions  greatly  contribute.  To  avoid 
this  censure,  therefore,  is  now  their  only  care;  for 
which  purpose  they  still  pretend  the  same  aversion  to 
the  monster:  and  the  more  they  love  him,  the  more 
aidently  they  counterfeit  the  antipathy.  By  the 
continual  and  constant  practice  of  which  deceit  on 
others,  they   at  length   impose   on   themselves,  and 

[201j 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

really  believe  they  hate  what  they  love.  Thus, 
indeed,  it  happened  to  Lady  Booby,  who  loved 
Joseph  lon<5  before  she  knew  it ;  and  now  loved  him 
much  more  than  she  suspected.  She  had  indeed, 
from  the  time  of  his  sisters  arrival  in  the  quality  of 
her  niece,  and  from  the  instant  she  viewed  him  in  the 
dress  and  character  of  a  gentleman,  began  to  conceive 
secretly  a  design  which  love  had  concealed  from  her- 
self till  a  dream  betrayed  it  to  her. 

She  had  no  sooner  risen  than  she  sent  for  her 
nephew.  When  he  came  to  her,  after  many  compli- 
ments on  his  choice,  she  told  him,  "  He  might  per- 
ceive, in  her  condescension  to  admit  her  own  servant 
to  her  table,  that  she  looked  on  the  family  of  Andrews 
as  his  relations,  and  indeed  hers ;  that,  as  he  had 
married  into  such  a  family,  it  became  him  to  en- 
deavour by  all  methods  to  raise  it  as  much  as 
possible.  At  length  she  advised  him  to  use  all  his 
heart  to  dissuade  Joseph  from  his  intended  match, 
which  would  still  enlarge  their  relation  to  meanness 
and  poverty  ;  concluding  that,  by  a  commission  in 
the  army,  or  some  other  genteel  employment,  he 
might  soon  put  young  Mr.  Andrews  on  the  foot  of  a 
gentleman  ;  and,  that  being  once  done,  his  accom- 
plishments might  quickly  gain  him  an  alliance  which 
would  not  be  to  their  discredit." 

Her  nephew  heartily  embraced  this  proposal ;  and, 
finding  Mr.  Joseph  with  his  wife,  at  his  return  to 
her  chamber,  he  innnediately  began  thus:  "My  love 
to  my  dear  Pamela,  brother,  will  extend  to  all  her 
relations ;  nor  shall  I  show  them  less  respect  than  if 
I  had  married  into  the  family  of  a  duke.     I  hope  I 

[  202  ] 


THE    SQUIRE'S    ADVICE 

have  given  you  some  early  testimonies  of  this,  and 
shall  continue  to  give  you  daily  more.  You  will 
excuse  me  therefore,  brother,  if  my  concern  for  your 
interest  makes  me  mention  what  may  be,  perhaps, 
disagreeable  to  you  to  hear :  but  I  must  insist  upon 
it,  that,  if  you  have  any  value  for  my  alliance  or  my 
fi'iendship,  you  will  decline  any  thoughts  of  engag- 
ing farther  with  a  girl  who  is,  as  you  are  a  relation 
of  mine,  so  much  beneath  you.  I  know  there  may  be 
at  first  some  difficulty  in  your  compliance,  but  that 
will  daily  diminish ;  and  you  will  in  the  end  sincerely 
thank  me  for  my  advice.  I  own,  indeed,  the  girl  is 
handsome;  but  beauty  alone  is  a  poor  ingredient, 
and  will  make  but  an  uncomfortable  maiTiafre.'"'  — 
"  Sir,"  said  Joseph,  "  I  assure  you  her  beauty  is  her 
least  perfection  ;  nor  do  I  know  a  virtue  which  that 
young  creature  is  not  possesst  of."  — "  As  to  her 
virtues,"  answered  Mr.  Booby,  "  you  can  be  yet  but 
a  slender  judge  of  them  ;  but,  if  she  had  never  so 
many,  you  will  find  her  equal  in  these  among  her 
superiors  in  birth  and  fortune,  which  now  you  are  to 
esteem  on  a  footing  with  yourself;  at  least  I  will 
take  care  they  shall  shortly  be  so,  unless  you  prevent 
me  by  degrading  yourself  with  such  a  match,  a 
match  I  have  hardly  patience  to  think  of,  and  which 
would  break  the  hearts  of  your  parents,  who  now 
rejoice  in  the  expectation  of  seeing  you  make  a 
figure  in  the  world."  —  "I  know  not,"  replied  Joseph, 
"that  my  parents  have  any  power  over  my  inclina- 
tions ;  nor  am  I  obliged  to  sacrifice  my  happiness  to 
their  whim  or  ambition :  besides,  I  shall  be  very 
sorry  to  see  that  the  unexpected  advancement  of  my 

[  203  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

sister    should    so    suddenly   inspire    them    with    this 
wicked  pride,  and  make  them  despise  their  e(juals. 
I  am  resolved  on  no  account  to  (juit  my  dear  Fanny ; 
no,    though  I  could    raise   her   as    high    above  her 
present   station    as   you    have    raised  my  sister.""  — 
"  Your  sister,  as  well  as  myself,"  said  13ooby,  "  are 
greatly  obliged  to  you  for  the  comparison  :  but,  sir, 
she  is  not  worthy  to  be  compared  in  beauty  to  my 
Pamela  ;  nor  hath  she  half  her  merit.     And  besides, 
sir,  as   you    civilly    throw    my  marriage    with    your 
sister  in  my  teeth,  I  must  teach  you  the  wide  difl'er- 
ence  between  us  :  my  fortune  enabled  me  to  please 
myself;  and  it  would  have  been  as  overgrown  a  folly 
in    me    to  have  omitted  it  as  in  you  to  do  it."  — 
"My  fortune  enables  me  to  please  myself  likewise," 
said    Joseph;    "for    all    my  pleasure  is  centered   in 
Fanny  ;  and  whilst  I  have  health  I  shall  be  able  to 
support  her  with  my  labour  in  that  station  to  v\hich 
she    was    born,   and  with   which  she  is  content."  — 
"  Brother,"  said  i*amela,  "  Mr.  Booby  advises  you  as 
a  friend ;  and  no  doubt  my  papa  and  mannna  will 
be  of  his  opinion,  and  will  have  great  reason  to  be 
angry  with  you   for  destroying  what   his   goodness 
hath    done,    and    throwing  down  our  family  again, 
after  he  hath  raised  it.     It  would  become  you  better, 
brother,  to  pray  for  the  assistance  of  grace  against 
such  a  passion  than  to  indulge  it." —  "  Sure,  sister, 
you  are  not  in  earnest ;  I  am  sure  she  is  your  e(jual, 
at  least." —  "  She  was  my  equal,"  answered   Pamela  ; 
"  but  I  am  no  longer  Pamela  Andrews  ;  I  am   now 
this  gentleman*'s  lady,  and,  as  such,  am  above  her. 
—  I  hope  I  shall  never  behave  with  an  unbecoming 

[204] 


FANxNY     ATTACKED 

pride :  but,  at  the  same  time,  I  shall  always  en- 
deavour to  know  myself,  and  question  not  the  assist- 
ance of  grace  to  that  purpose/'  They  were  now 
summoned  to  breakfast,  and  thus  ended  their  dis- 
course for  the  present,  very  little  to  the  satisfaction 
of  any  of  the  parties. 

Fannv  was  now  walking  in  an  avenue  at  some 
distance  from  the  house,  where  Joseph  had  pi'omised 
to  take  the  first  opportunity  of  coming  to  her.  She 
had  not  a  shilling  in  the  world,  and  had  subsisted 
ever  since  her  return  entirely  on  the  charity  of 
parson  Adams.  A  young  gentleman,  attended  by 
many  servants,  came  up  to  her,  and  asked  her  if  that 
was  not  the  Lady  Booby's  house  before  him  ?  This, 
indeed,  he  well  knew ;  but  had  framed  the  question 
for  no  other  reason  than  to  make  her  look  up,  and 
discover  if  her  face  was  equal  to  the  delicacy  of  her 
shape.  He  no  sooner  saw  it  than  he  was  struck 
with  amazement.  He  stopt  his  horse,  and  swore 
she  was  the  most  beautiful  creature  he  ever  beheld. 
Then,  instantly  alighting  and  delivering  his  horse  to 
his  servant,  he  rapt  out  half-a-dozen  oaths  that  he 
would  kiss  her;  to  which  she  at  first  submitted, 
begging  he  would  not  be  rude ;  but  he  was  not 
satisfied  with  the  civility  of  a  salute,  nor  even  with 
the  rudest  attack  he  could  make  on  her  lips,  but 
caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  endeavoured  to  kiss 
her  breasts,  which  with  all  her  strength  she  resisted, 
and,  as  our  spark  was  not  of  the  Herculean  race, 
with  some  difficulty  prevented.  The  young  gentle- 
man, being  soon  out  of  breath  in  the  struggle, 
quitted  her,  and,  remounting  his  horse,  called  one  of 

[  205  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

his  servants  to  him,  whom  he  ordered  to  stay  behind 
with  her,  and  make  her  any  offers  whatever  to  prevail 
on  her  to  return  home  with  him  in  the  evening ;  and 
to  assure  her  he  would  take  her  into  keeping.  He 
then  rode  on  with  his  other  servants,  and  arrived  at 
the  lady's  house,  to  whom  he  was  a  distant  relation, 
and  was  come  to  pay  a  visit. 

The  trusty  fellow,  who  was  employed  in  an  office 
he  had  been  long  accustomed  to,  discharged  his  part 
with  all  the  fidelity  and  dexterity  imaginable,  but  to 
no  purpose.  She  was  entirely  deaf  to  his  offers,  and 
rejected  them  with  the  utmost  disdain.  At  last  the 
pimp,  who  had  perhaps  more  warm  blood  about  him 
than  his  master,  began  to  sollicit  for  himself;  he  told 
her,  though  he  was  a  servant,  he  was  a  man  of  some 
fortune,  which  he  would  make  her  mistress  of;  and 
this  without  any  insult  to  her  virtue,  for  that  he  would 
marry  her.  She  answered,  if  his  master  himself,  or  the 
greatest  lord  in  the  land,  would  marry  her,  she  would 
refuse  him.  At  last,  being  weary  with  persuasions,  and 
on  fire  with  charms  which  would  have  almost  kindled 
a  flame  in  the  bosom  of  an  ancient  philosopher  or 
modern  divine,  he  fastened  his  horse  to  the  ground, 
and  attacked  her  with  much  more  force  than  the 
gentleman  had  exerted.  Poor  Fanny  would  not 
have  been  able  to  resist  his  rudeness  a  short  time, 
but  the  deity  who  presides  over  chaste  love  sent  her 
Joseph  to  her  assistance.  He  no  sooner  came  within 
sight,  and  perceived  her  struggling  with  a  man,  than, 
like  a  cannon-ball,  or  like  lightning,  or  anything 
that  is  swifter,  if  anything  be,  he  ran  towards  her, 
and,  coming  up   just  as  the  ravisher  had  torn  her 

[206] 


JOSEPH    DEFENDS    FANNY 

handkerchief  from  her  brccast,  before  his  hps  had 
touched  that  seat  of  innocence  and  bhss,  he  dealt 
him  so  lusty  a  blow  in  that  part  of  his  neck  which 
a  rope  would  have  become  with  the  utmost  propriety, 
that  the  fellow  staggered  backwards,  and,  perceiving 
he  had  to  do  with  something  rougher  than  the  little, 
tender,  trembling  hand  of  Fanny,  he  quitted  her,  and, 
turning  about,  saw  his  rival,  with  fire  flashing  from 
his  eyes,  again  ready  to  assail  him ;  and,  indeed, 
before  he  could  well  defend  himself,  or  return  the 
first  blow,  he  received  a  second,  which,  had  it  fallen 
on  that  part  of  the  stomach  to  which  it  was  directed, 
would  have  been  probably  the  last  he  would  have 
had  any  occasion  for ;  but  the  ravisher,  lifting  up 
his  hand,  drove  the  blow  upwards  to  his  mouth, 
whence  it  dislodged  three  of  his  teeth ;  and  now, 
not  conceiving  any  extraordinary  affection  for  the 
beauty  of  Joseph's  person,  nor  being  extremely 
pleased  with  this  method  of  salutation,  he  collected 
all  his  force,  and  aimed  a  blow  at  Joseph's  breast, 
which  he  artfully  parried  with  one  fist,  so  that  it  lost 
its  force  entirely  in  air  ;  and,  stepping  one  foot  back- 
ward, he  darted  his  fist  so  fiercely  at  his  enemy,  that, 
had  he  not  caught  it  in  his  hand  (for  he  was  a  boxer 
of  no  inferior  fame),  it  must  have  tumbled  him  on 
the  sround.  And  now  the  ravisher  meditated  an- 
other  blow,  which  he  aimed  at  that  part  of  the  breast 
where  the  heart  is  lodged  ;  Joseph  did  not  catch  it 
as  before,  yet  so  prevented  its  aim  that  it  fell  directly 
on  his  nose,  but  with  abated  force.  Joseph  then, 
moving  both  fist  and  foot  forwards  at  the  same 
time,  threw  his  head  so  dexterously  into  the  stom- 

[207] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

ach  of  the  ravisher  that  he  fell  a  lifeless  lump  on 
the  field,  where  he  lay  many  minutes  breathless  and 
motionless. 

When  Fanny  saw  her  Joseph  receive  a  blow  in  his 
face,  and  blood  running  in  a  stream  from  him,  she 
began  to  tear  her  hair  and  invoke  all  human  and 
divine  power  to  his  assistance.  She  was  not,  how- 
ever, long  under  this  affliction  before  Joseph,  having 
conquered  his  enemy,  ran  to  her,  and  assured  her  he 
was  not  hurt ;  she  then  instantly  fell  on  her  knees, 
and  thanked  God  that  he  had  made  Joseph  the 
means  of  her  rescue,  and  at  the  same  time  preserved 
him  from  being  injured  in  attempting  it.  She 
offered,  with  her  handkerchief,  to  wipe  his  blood 
from  his  face ;  but  he,  seeing  his  rival  attempting 
to  recover  his  legs,  turned  to  him,  and  asked  him  if 
he  had  enough  ?  To  which  the  other  answered  he 
had  ;  for  he  believed  he  had  fought  with  the  devil 
instead  of  a  man  ;  and,  loosening  his  horse,  said  he 
should  not  have  attempted  the  wench  if  he  had 
known  she  had  been  so  well  provided  for. 

Fanny  now  begged  Joseph  to  return  with  her  to 
parson  Adams,  and  to  promise  that  he  would  leave 
her  no  more.  These  were  propositions  so  agreeable 
to  Joseph,  that,  had  he  heard  them,  he  would  have 
given  an  immediate  assent ;  but  indeed  his  eyes  were 
now  his  only  sense  ;  for  you  may  remember,  reader, 
that  the  ravisher  had  tore  her  handkerchief  from 
Fanny\s  neck,  by  which  he  had  discovered  such  a 
sight,  that  Joseph  hath  declared  all  the  statues  he 
ever  beheld  were  so  much  inferior  to  it  in  beauty, 
that  it  was  more  capable  of  converting  a  man  into 

[208] 


FANNY'S    CONFUSION 

a  statue  than  of  being  imitated  by  the  greatest 
master  of  that  art.  This  modest  creature,  whom 
no  warmth  in  summer  could  ever  induce  to  expose 
her  charms  to  the  wanton  sun,  a  modesty  to  which, 
perhaps,  they  owed  their  inconceivable  whiteness, 
had  stood  many  minutes  bare-necked  in  the  presence 
of  Joseph  before  her  apprehension  of  his  danger  and 
the  horror  of  seeing  his  blood  would  suffer  her  once 
to  reflect  on  what  concerned  herself;  till  at  last, 
when  the  cause  of  her  concern  had  vanished,  an 
admiration  at  his  silence,  together  with  observing 
the  fixed  position  of  his  eyes,  produced  an  idea  in 
the  lovely  maid  which  brought  more  blood  into  her 
face  than  had  flowed  from  Joseph's  nostrils.  The 
snowy  hue  of  her  bosom  was  likewise  changed  to 
vermilion  at  the  instant  when  she  clapped  her  hand- 
kerchief round  her  neck.  Joseph  saw  the  uneasiness 
she  suffered,  and  immediately  removed  his  eyes  from 
an  object,  in  surveying  which  he  had  felt  the  great- 
est delight  which  the  organs  of  sight  were  capable 
of  conveying  to  his  soul  ;  —  so  great  was  his  fear  of 
offiending  her,  and  so  truly  did  his  passion  for  her 
deserve  the  noble  name  of  love. 

Fanny,  being  recovered  from  her  confusion,  which 
was  almost  equalled  by  what  Joseph  had  felt  from 
observing  it,  again  mentioned  her  request ;  this  was 
instantly  and  gladly  complied  with  ;  and  together 
they  crossed  two  or  three  fields,  which  brought  them 
to  the  habitation  of  Mr.  Adams. 


VOL.  II. 


14  [  209  J 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

A  DISCOURSE  WHICH  HAPPENED  BETWEEN  MR.  ADAMS, 
MRS,  ADAMS,  JOSEPH,  AND  FANNY  ;  WITH  SOME 
BEHAVIOUR  OF  MR.  ADAMS  WHICH  WILL  BE  CALLED 
BY  SOME  FEW  READERS  VERY  LOW,  ABSURD,  AND 
UNNATURAL, 

THE  parson  and  his  wife  had  just  ended 
a  long  dispute  when  tlie  lovers  came  to 
the  door.  Indeed,  this  young  couple 
had  been  the  subject  of  the  dispute ; 
for  Mrs.  Adams  was  one  of  those  prudent  people 
who  never  do  anything  to  injure  their  families,  or, 
perhaps,  one  of  those  good  mothers  who  would  even 
stretch  their  conscience  to  serve  their  children.  She 
had  long  entertained  hopes  of  seeing  her  eldest 
daughter  succeed  Mrs.  Slipslop,  and  of  making  her 
second  son  an  exciseman  by  Lady  Booby's  interest. 
These  were  expectations  she  could  not  endure  the 
thoughts  of  quitting,  and  was,  therefore,  very  uneasy 
to  see  her  husband  so  resolute  to  oppose  the  lady^s 
intention  in  Fanny's  affair.  She  told  him,  "  It  be- 
hoved every  man  to  take  the  first  care  of  his  family  ; 
that  he  had  a  wife  and  six  children,  the  maintaining 
and  providing  for  whom  would  be  business  enough  for 
him  without  intermeddling  in  other  folks' affairs;  that 

[  210  ] 


MRS.    ADAMSES    ARGUMENTS 

he  had  always  preached  up  submission  to  superiors, 
and  would  do  ill  to  give  an  example  of  the  contrary 
behaviour  in  his  own  conduct;  that  if  Lady  Booby 
did  wrong  she  must  answer  for  it  herself,  and  the  sin 
would  ^not  lie  at  their  door ;  that  Fanny  had  been 
a  servant,  and  bred  up  in  the  lady's  own  family,  and 
consecjuently  she  must  have  known  more  of  her  than 
they  did,  and  it  was  very  improbable,  if  she  had  be- 
haved herself  well,  that  the  lady  would  have  been  so 
bitterly  her  enemy  ;  that  perhaps  he  was  too  much 
inclined  to  think  well  of  her  because  she  was  handsome, 
but  handsome  women  were  often  no  better  than  they 
should  be  ;  that  G —  made  ugly  women  as  well  as 
handsome  ones ;  and  that  if  a  woman  had  virtue  it 
signified  nothing  whether  she  had  beauty  or  no."" 
For  all  which  reasons  she  concluded  he  should  oblige 
the  lady,  and  stop  the  future  publication  of  the 
banns.  But  all  these  excellent  arguments  had  no 
effect  on  the  parson,  who  persisted  in  doing  his  duty 
without  regarding  the  consequence  it  might  have  on 
his  worldly  interest.  He  endeavoured  to  answer  her 
as  well  as  he  could  ;  to  which  she  had  just  finished 
her  reply  ( for  she  had  always  the  last  w  ord  every- 
where but  at  church )  when  Joseph  and  Fanny 
entered  their  kitchen,  where  the  parson  and  his  wife 
then  sat  at  breakfast  over  some  bacon  and  cabbage. 
There  was  a  coldness  in  the  civility  of  Mrs.  Adams 
which  persons  of  accurate  speculation  might  have 
observed,  but  escaped  her  present  guests ;  indeed,  it 
was  a  good  deal  covered  by  the  heartiness  of  Adams, 
who  no  sooner  heard  that  Fanny  had  neither  eat  nor 
drank  that  morning  than  he  presented  her  a  bone  of 

[211] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

bacon  he  had  just  been  gnawing,  being  the  only 
remains  of  his  provision,  and  then  ran  nimbly  to  the 
tap,  and  produced  a  nuig  of  small  beer,  which  he 
called  ale ;  however,   it  was   the  best  in  his   house. 
Joseph,  addressing  himself  to  the  parson,  told  him 
the     discourse    which    had    past    between     Squire 
Booby,  his  sister,  and  himself  concerning  Fanny ;  he 
then   acquainted  him  with  the  dangers  whence  he 
had  rescued  her,  and  communicated  some  apprehen- 
sions on  her  account.     He  concluded  that  he  should 
never  have  an  easy  moment  till  Fanny  was  absolutely 
his,  and  begged  that  he  might  be  suffered  to  fetch 
a  licence,  saying  he  could  easily  borrow  the  money. 
The  parson  answered.  That  he  had  already  given  his 
sentiments  concerning  a  licence,  and  that  a  very  few 
days  would  make  it  unnecessary.     "  Joseph,"  says  he, 
"  I  wish  this  haste  doth  not  arise  rather  from  your 
impatience    than    your    fear ;  but,    as   it    certainly 
springs    from    one  of  these    causes,  I   will    examine 
both.     Of  each   of  these   therefore  in    their   turn  ; 
and  first  for  the  first  of  these,  namely,  impatience. 
Now,  child,  I  must  inform  you  that,  if  in  your  pur- 
posed marriage  with   this  young   woman  you  have 
no  intention  but  the  indulgence  of  carnal  appetites, 
you  are  guilty    of  a  very  heinous  sin.     Marriage  was 
ordained  for  nobler  purposes,  as  you  will  learn  when 
you  hear  the  service  provided  on  that  occasion  read 
to  you.     Nay,  perhaps,   if  you  are  a  good  lad,  I, 
child,  shall  give  you  a  sermon  gratis,  wherein  I  shall 
demonstrate  how  little  regard  ought  to  be  had  to  the 
flesh  on  such  occasions.     The  text  will  be  Matthew 
the  5th,  and  part  of  the  S8th   verse —  Whosoever 

[212] 


THE    PARSON    ADVISES    JOSEPH 

looketh  on  a  zooman,  so  as  to  lust  after  her.  The 
latter  part  I  shall  omit,  as  foreign  to  my  purpose. 
Indeed,  all  such  brutal  lusts  and  affections  are  to  be 
greatly  subdued,  if  not  totally  eradicated,  before  the 
vessel  can  be  said  to  be  consecrated  to  honour.  To 
marry  with  a  view  of  gratifying  those  inclinations 
is  a  prostitution  of  that  holy  ceremony,  and  must 
entail  a  curse  on  all  who  so  lightly  undertake  it. 
If,  therefore,  this  haste  arises  from  impatience,  you 
are  to  correct,  and  not  give  way  to  it.  Now,  as  to 
the  second  head  which  I  proposed  to  speak  to, 
namely,  fear:  it  argues  a  diffidence,  highly  criminal, 
of  that  Power  in  which  alone  we  should  put  our 
trust,  seeing  we  may  be  well  assured  that  he  is  able, 
not  only  to  defeat  the  designs  of  our  enemies,  but 
even  to  turn  their  hearts.  Instead  of  taking,  there- 
fore, any  unjustifiable  or  desperate  means  to  rid 
ourselves  of  fear,  we  should  resort  to  prayer  only  on 
these  occasions ;  and  we  may  be  then  certain  of 
obtaining  what  is  best  for  us.  \\^ien  any  accident 
threatens  us  we  are  not  to  despair,  nor,  when  it  over- 
takes us,  to  grieve ;  we  must  submit  in  all  things  to 
the  will  of  Providence,  and  set  our  affections  so  much 
on  nothing  here  that  we  cannot  quit  it  without 
reluctance.  You  are  a  young  man,  and  can  know 
but  little  of  this  world ;  I  am  older,  and  have  seen  a 
great  deal.  All  passions  are  criminal  in  their 
excess ;  and  even  love  itself,  if  it  is  not  subservi- 
ent to  our  duty,  may  render  us  blind  to  it.  Had 
Abraham  so  loved  his  son  Isaac  as  to  refuse  the 
sacrifice  required,  is  there  any  of  us  who  would  not 
condemn   him  ?     Joseph,   I   know   your  many  good 

[213] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

qualities,  and  value  you  for  them  ;  but,  as  I  am  to 
render  an  account  of  your  soul,  which  is  committed 
to  my  cure,  I  cannot  see  any  fault  without  remind- 
ing you  of  it.  You  are  too  much  inclined  to  pas- 
sion, child,  and  have  set  your  affections  so  absolutely 
on  this  young  woman,  that,  if  G —  required  her  at 
your  hands,  I  fear  you  would  reluctantly  part  with 
her.  Now,  believe  me,  no  Christian  ought  so  to  set 
his  heart  on  any  person  or  thing  in  this  world,  but 
that,  whenever  it  shall  be  required  or  taken  from  him 
in  any  manner  by  Divine  Providence,  he  may  be 
able,  peaceably,  quietly,  and  contentedly  to  resign  it." 
At  which  words  one  came  hastily  in,  and  acquainted 
Mr.  Adams  that  his  youngest  son  was  drowned. 
He  stood  silent  a  moment,  and  soon  began  to  stamp 
about  the  room  and  deplore  his  loss  with  the 
bitterest  agony.  Joseph,  who  was  overwhelmed  with 
concern  likewise,  recovered  himself  sufficiently  to 
endeavour  to  comfort  the  parson  ;  in  which  attempt 
he  used  many  arguments  that  he  had  at  several 
times  remembered  out  of  his  own  discourses,  both  in 
private  and  public  (  for  he  was  a  great  enemy  to  the 
passions,  and  preached  nothing  more  than  the  con- 
quest of  them  by  reason  and  grace  ),  but  he  was  not 
at  leisure  now  to  hearken  to  his  advice.  "  Child, 
child,"  said  he,  "  do  not  go  about  impossibilities. 
Had  it  been  any  other  of  my  children  I  could  have 
borne  it  with  patience ;  but  my  little  prattler,  the 
darling  and  comfort  of  ray  old  age  —  the  little 
wretch,  to  be  snatched  out  of  life  just  at  his  entrance 
into  it ;  the  sweetest,  best-tempered  boy,  who  never 
did  a  thing  to  offend  me.     It  was  but  this  morning 

[214] 


THE    PARSON    TESTED 

I  gave  him  his  first  lesson  in  Qiuc  Gemis.  This  was 
the  very  book  he  learnt ;  poor  child  !  it  is  of  no 
further  use  to  thee  now.  He  would  have  made  the 
best  scholar,  and  have  been  an  ornament  to  the 
Church ;  —  such  parts  and  such  goodness  never  met 
in  one  so  young.'"  "  And  the  handsomest  lad  too," 
says  Mrs.  Adams,  recovering  from  a  swoon  in  Fanny's 
arms.  "  My  poor  Jacky,  shall  I  never  see  thee 
more  ? '''  cries  the  parson.  "  Yes,  surely,"  says  Joseph, 
"  and  in  a  better  place  ;  you  will  meet  again,  never  to 
part  more."  I  believe  the  parson  did  not  hear  these 
words,  for  he  paid  little  regard  to  them,  but  went  on 
lamenting,  whilst  the  tears  trickled  down  into  his 
bosom.  At  last  he  cried  out,  "Where  is  my  little 
darling?"  and  was  sallying  out,  when  to  his  great 
surprize  and  joy,  in  which  I  hope  the  reader  will 
sympathize,  he  met  his  son  in  a  wet  condition 
indeed,  but  alive  and  running  towards  him.  The 
person  who  brought  the  news  of  his  misfortune  had 
been  a  little  too  eager,  as  people  sometimes  are,  from, 
I  believe,  no  very  good  principle,  to  relate  ill  news  ; 
and,  seeing  him  fall  into  the  river,  instead  of  running 
to  his  assistance,  directly  ran  to  acquaint  his  father 
of  a  fate  which  he  had  concluded  to  be  inevitable, 
but  whence  the  child  was  relieved  by  the  same  poor 
pedlar  who  had  relieved  his  father  before  from  a  less 
distress.  The  parson's  joy  was  now  as  extra \agant 
as  his  grief  had  been  before  ;  he  kissed  and  embraced 
his  son  a  thousand  times,  and  danced  about  the  room 
like  one  frantic  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  discovered  the 
face  of  his  old  friend  the  pedlar,  and  heard  the  fresh 
obligation  he  had  to  him,  what  were  his  sensations  ^ 

[215] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

not  those  which  two  courtiers  feel  in  one  another's 
embraces  ;  not  those  with  which  a  great  man  receives 
the  vile  treacherous  engines  of  his  wicked  purposes, 
not  those  with  which  a  worthless  younger  brother 
wishes  his  elder  joy  of  a  son,  or  a  man  congratu- 
lates his  rival  on  his  obtaining  a  mistress,  a  place, 
or  an  honour.  —  No,  reader ;  he  felt  the  ebulli- 
tion, the  overflowings  of  a  full,  honest,  open  heart, 
towards  the  person  who  had  conferred  a  real  obli- 
gation, and  of  which,  if  thou  canst  not  conceive  an 
idea  within,  I  will  not  vainly  endeavour  to  assist 
thee. 

When  these  tumults  were  over,  the  parson,  taking 
Joseph  aside,  proceeded  thus  —  "  No,  Joseph,  do  not 
give  too  much  way  to  thy  passions,  if  thou  dost 
expect  happiness."  The  patience  of  Joseph,  nor  per- 
haps of  Job,  could  bear  no  longer ;  he  interrupted 
the  parson,  saying,  "  It  was  easier  to  give  advice 
than  take  it ;  nor  did  he  perceive  he  could  so  entirely 
conquer  himself,  when  he  apprehended  he  had  lost 
his  son,  or  when  he  found  him  recovered."  —  "Boy,"" 
replied  Adams,  raising  his  voice,  "  it  doth  not  be- 
come green  heads  to  advise  grey  hairs.  —  Thou  art 
ignorant  of  the  tenderness  of  fatherly  affection ; 
when  thou  art  a  father  thou  wilt  be  capable  then 
only  of  knowing  what  a  father  can  feel.  No  mkn  is 
obliged  to  impossibilities  ;  and  the  loss  of  a  child 
is  one  of  those  great  trials  where  our  grief  may 
be  allowed  to  become  immoderate." — "Well,  sir," 
cries  Joseph,  "  and  if  I  love  a  mistress  as  well  as  you 
your  child,  surely  her  loss  would  grieve  me  equally." 
—  "  Yes,  but  such  love  is  foolishness  and  wrong  in 

[216] 


CONJUGAL    AFFECTION 

itself,  and  ought  to  be  conquered,'*'  answered  Adams  ; 
"  it  savours  too  much  of  the  flesh.'*'  —  "  Sure,  sir,'*' 
says  Joseph,  "  it  is  not  sinful  to  love  my  wife,  no, 
not  even  to  doat  on  her  to  distraction  ! "  —  "  Indeed 
but  it  is,*"  says  Adams.  "  Every  man  ought  to  love 
his  wife,  no  doubt  ;  we  are  commanded  so  to  do ;  but 
we  ought  to  love  her  with  moderation  and  discre- 
tion/*' —  "I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  guilty  of  some  sin 
in  spite  of  all  my  endeavours,*"  says  Joseph ;  "  for  I 
shall  love  without  any  moderation,  I  am  sure."  — 
"  You  talk  foolishly  and  childishly,"  cries  Adams.  — 
"  Indeed,*"  says  Mrs.  Adams,  who  had  listened  to  the 
latter  part  of  their  conversation,  "you  talk  more 
foolishly  yourself.  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  will  never 
preach  any  such  doctrine  as  that  husbands  can  love 
their  wives  too  well.  If  I  knew  you  had  such  a  ser- 
mon in  the  house  I  am  sure  I  would  burn  it,  and  I 
declare,  if  I  had  not  been  convinced  you  had  loved 
me  as  well  as  you  could,  I  can  answer  for  myself,  I 
should  have  hated  and  despised  you.  Marry  come  up  ! 
Fine  doctrine,  indeed  !  A  wife  hath  a  right  to  insist 
on  her  husband's  loving  her  as  much  as  ever  he  can ;  ana 
he  is  a  sinful  villain  who  doth  not.  Doth  he  not  prom- 
ise to  love  her,  and  to  comfort  her,  and  to  cherish  her, 
and  all  that  ?  I  am  sure  I  remember  it  all  as  well  as 
if  I  had  repeated  it  over  but  yesterday,  and  shall  never 
forget  it.  Besides,  I  am  certain  you  do  not  preach 
as  you  practise  ;  for  you  have  been  a  loving  and  a 
cherishing  husband  to  me ;  that 's  the  truth  on 't ; 
and  why  you  should  endeavour  to  put  such  wicked 
nonsense  into  this  young  man's  head  I  cannot  devise. 
Don't  hearken    to  him,  Mr.   Joseph;  be  as  good  a 

[217] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

husband  as  you  are  able,  and  love  your  wife  with 
all  your  body  and  soul  too.'"  Here  a  violent  rap 
at  the  door  put  an  end  to  their  discourse,  and  pro- 
duced a  scene  which  the  reader  will  find  in  the  next 
chapter. 


[218] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

A  VISIT  WHICH  THE  POLITE  LADY  BOOBY  AND  HER  POLITE 
FRIEND  PAID  TO  THE   PARSON. 

THE  Lady  Booby  had  no  sooner  had  an 
account  from  the  gentleman  of  his  meet- 
ing a  wonderful  beauty  near  her  house, 
and  perceived  the  raptui'es  with  which 
he  spoke  of  her,  than,  immediately  concluding  it 
must  be  Fanny,  she  began  to  meditate  a  design  of 
bringing  them  better  acquainted ;  and  to  entertain 
hopes  that  the  fine  clothes,  presents,  and  promises  of 
this  youth,  would  prevail  on  her  to  abandon  Joseph : 
she  therefore  proposed  to  her  company  a  walk  in  the 
fields  before  dinner,  when  she  led  them  towards  j\Ir. 
Adams's  house;  and,  as  she  approached  it,  told  them 
if  they  pleased  she  would  divert  them  with  one  of 
the  most  ridiculous  sights  they  had  ever  seen,  which 
was  an  old  foolish  parson,  who,  she  said,  laughing, 
kept  a  wife  and  six  brats  on  a  salary  of  about  twenty 
pounds  a  year ;  adding,  that  there  was  not  such  an- 
other ragged  family  in  the  parish.  They  all  readily 
agreed  to  this  visit,  and  arrived  whilst  Mrs.  Adams 
was  declaiming  as  in  the  last  chapter.  Beau  Didapper, 
which  was  the  name  of  the  young  gentleman  we  have 
seen  riding  towards  Lady  Booby's,  with  his  cane 
mimicked  the  rap  of  a  London  footman  at  the  door. 
The   people  within,   namelv,   Adams,   his  wife    and 

[219] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

three  children,  Joseph,  Fanny,  and  the  pedlar,  were 
all  thrown  into  confusion  by  this  knock,  but  Adams 
went  directly  to  the  door,  which  being  opened,  the 
Lady  Booby  and  her  company  walked  in,  and  were 
received  by  the  parson  with  about  two  hundred  bows, 
and  by  his  wife  with  as  many  curtsies  ;  the  latter 
telling  the  lady  "She  was  ashamed  to  be  seen  in 
such  a  pickle,  and  that  her  house  was  in  such  a 
litter ;  but  that  if  she  had  expected  such  an  honour 
from  her  ladyship  she  should  have  found  her  in  a 
better  manner.""  The  parson  made  no  apologies, 
though  he  was  in  his  half-cassock  and  a  flannel  night- 
cap. He  said  "  They  were  heartily  welcome  to  his 
poor  cottage,"  and  turning  to  Mr.  Didapper,  cried 
out,  "  No)i  mea  retiidet  in  domo  lacunar.''''  The  beau 
answered,  "  He  did  not  understand  Welsh ; "  at 
which  the  parson  stared  and  made  no  reply. 

Mr.   Didapper,   or  beau  Didapper,   was  a  young 

gentleman  of  about  four  foot  five  inches  in  height. 

He  wore  his  own  hair,  though  the  scarcity  of  it  might 

have  given  him  sufficient  excuse  for  a  periwig.     His 

face  was  thin  and  pale ;  the  shape  of  his  body  and 

legs    none   of  the   best,    for   he    had    very    narrow 

shoulders  and    no  calf;  and    his  gait  might    more 

properly   be   called   hopping    than    walking.       The 

qualifications  of  his  mind  were  well  adapted  to  his 

person.     We  shall  handle  them  first  negatively.     He 

was  not  entirely  ignorant ;  for  he  could  talk  a  little 

French  and  sing  two  or  three  Italian  songs ;  he  had 

lived  too  much  in  the  world  to  be  bashful,  and  too 

nmch  at  court   to  be  proud :  he  seemed  not  much 

inclined  to  avarice,  for  he  was  profuse  in  his  expenses  ; 

[  220  ] 


BEAU    DIDAPPER 

nor  had  he  all  the  features  of  prodigality,  for  he 
never  gave  a  shilling :  no  hater  of  women,  for  he 
always  dangled  after  them  ;  yet  so  little  subject  to 
lust,  that  he  had,  among  those  who  knew  him  best, 
the  character  of  great  moderation  in  his  pleasures  ; 
no  drinker  of  wine  ;  nor  so  addicted  to  passion  but 
that  a  hot  word  or  two  from  an  adversary  made  him 
immediatelv  cool. 

Now,  to  give  him  only  a  dash  or  two  on  the 
affirmative  side  :  though  he  was  born  to  an  immense 
fortune,  he  chose,  for  the  pitiful  and  dirty  considera- 
tion of  a  place  of  little  consequence,  to  depend 
entirely  on  the  will  of  a  fellow  whom  they  call  a 
great  man ;  who  treated  him  with  the  utmost  dis- 
respect, and  exacted  of  him  a  plenary  obedience  to 
his  commands,  which  he  implicitly  submitted  to,  at 
the  expense  of  his  conscience,  his  honour,  and  of 
his  country,  in  which  he  had  himself  so  very  large 
a  share.  And  to  finish  his  character;  as  he  was 
entirely  well  satisfied  with  his  own  person  and  parts, 
so  he  was  very  apt  to  ridicule  and  laugh  at  any  im- 
perfection in  another.  Such  was  the  little  person,  or 
rather  thing,  that  hopped  after  Lady  Booby  into  JMr. 
Adams's  kitchen. 

The  parson  and  his  company  retreated  from  the 
chimney-side,  where  they  had  been  seated,  to  give 
room  to  the  lady  and  hers.  Instead  of  returning 
any  of  the  curtsies  or  extraordinary  civility  of  IVlrs. 
Adams,  the  lady,  turning  to  Mr.  Booby,  cried  out, 
'''■  Quelle  Bete!  Quel  Animal!''''  And  presently  after 
discovering  Fanny  (for  she  did  not  need  the  circum- 
stance   of  her    standing    by    Joseph    to    assure    the 

[  22i  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

identity  of  hei'  person),  she  asked  the  beau  "  Whether 
he  did  not  think  lier  a  pretty  girl  ? "  — "  Begad, 
madam,*"  answered  he,  "'tis  the  very  same  I  met."" 
"  I  did  not  imagine,""  repHed  the  lady,  "  you  had  so 
good  a  taste."*"*  —  "  Because  I  never  liked  you,  I  war- 
rant,'"* cries  the  beau.  "  Ridiculous  ! ""  said  she  :  "  you 
know  you  was  always  my  aversion.""  "  I  would  never 
mention  aversion,"  answered  the  beau,  "  with  that 
face  ;  ^  dear  Lady  Booby,  wash  your  face  before  you 
mention  aversion,  I  beseech  you."  He  then  laughed, 
and  turned  about  to  coquet  it  with  Fanny. 

Mrs.  Adams  had  been  all  this  time  begging  and 
praying  the  ladies  to  sit  down,  a  favour  which  she  at 
last  obtained.  The  little  boy  to  whom  the  accident 
had  happened,  still  keeping  his  place  by  the  fire,  was 
chid  by  his  mother  for  not  being  more  mannerly : 
but  Lady  Booby  took  his  part,  and,  commending  his 
beauty,  told  the  parson  he  was  his  very  picture. 
She  then,  seeing  a  book  in  his  hand,  asked,  "  If  he 
could  read  ?  "  —  "  Yes,"  cried  Adams,  "  a  little  Latin, 
madam:  he  is  just  got  into  Quae  Genus."  —  "A  fig 
for  quere  genius  !  "  answered  she  ;  "  let  me  hear  him 
read  a  little  English."  — "  Lege,  Dick,  lege,"  said 
Adams :  but  the  boy  made  no  answer,  till  he  saw  the 
parson  knit  his  brows,  and  then  cried,  "  I  don"'t 
understand  you,  father."  —  "  How,  boy  !  "  says 
Adams ;  "  what  doth  lego  make  in  the  imperative 
mood?  Legito,  doth  it  not.?"  —  "Yes,"  answered 
Dick.  — "  And   what    besides  ?  "    says    the    father. 

^  Lest  this  should  appear  unnatural  to  some  readers,  we 
think  proper  to  acquaint  them,  that  it  is  taken  verbatim  from 
very  polite  conversation. 

[  222  J 


A    YOUTHFUL    SCHOLAR 

"  Lege,"  quoth  the  son,  after  some  hesitation.  "  A 
good  boy,"  says  the  father :  "  and  now,  child,  what 
is  the  EngHsh  of  lego  ?  "  —  To  which  the  boy,  after 
long  puzzling,  answered,  he  could  not  tell.  "  How  !  " 
cries  Adams,  in  a  passion  ;  —  "  what,  hath  the  water 
washed  away  your  learning  ?  Why,  what  is  Latin 
for  the  English  verb  read  ?  Consider  before  you 
speak."  The  child  considered  some  time,  and  then 
the  parson  cried  twice  or  thrice,  "Le — ,  Le — ." 
Dick  answered,  "  Lego.""  —  "  Very  well ;  —  and  then 
what  is  the  English,"  says  the  parson,  "  of  the  verb 
lego.?"  — "To  read,"  cried  Dick. —  "  Very  well," 
said  the  parson ;  "  a  good  boy :  you  can  do  well  if 
you  will  take  pains.  —  I  assure  your  ladyship  he  is 
not  much  above  eight  years  old,  and  is  out  of  his 
Propria  qua?  Maribus  already.  —  Come,  Dick,  read 
to  her  ladyship;"  —  which  she  again  desiring,  in 
order  to  give  the  beau  time  and  opportunity  with 
Fanny,  Dick  began  as  in  the  following  chapter. 


[223] 


CHAPTER    TEN 

THE  HISTORY  OF  TWO  FRIENDS,  WHICH  MAY  AFFORD  AN 
USEFUL  LESSON  TO  ALL  THOSE  PERSONS  WHO  HAP- 
PEN TO  TAKE  UP  THEIR  RESIDENCE  IN  MARRIED 
FAMILIES. 

EONARD  and  Paul  were  two  friends."  — 
"  Pronounce  it  Lennard,  child,"  cried 
the  parson.  —  "  Pray,  Mr.  Adams,"  says 
Lady  Booby,  "  let  your  son  read  with- 
out interruption."  Dick  then  proceeded.  "  Lennard 
and  Paul  were  two  friends,  who,  having  been  educated 
together  at  the  same  school,  commenced  a  friendship 
which  they  preserved  a  long  time  for  each  other. 
It  was  so  deeply  fixed  in  both  their  minds,  that  a 
long  absence,  during  which  they  had  maintained  no 
correspondence,  did  not  eradicate  nor  lessen  it :  but 
it  revived  in  all  its  force  at  their  first  meeting,  which 
was  not  till  after  fifteen  years'  absence,  most  of 
which  time  Lennard  had  spent  in  the  East  Indi-es." 

—  "  Pronounce  it  short,  Indies,"    says  Adams. 

"Pray,  sir,  be  quiet,"  says  the  lady.  —The  boy 
repeated  — "  in  the  East  Indies,  whilst  Paul  had 
served  his  king  and  country  in  the  army.  In  which 
different  services  they  had  found  such  different  suc- 
cess, that  Lennard  was  now  married,  and  retired  with 
a  fortune  of  thirty  thousand  pounds  ;  and  Paul  was 

[  224  ] 


HISTORY    OF    TWO    FRIENDS 

arrived  to  the  degree  of  a  lieutenant  of  foot ;  and 
was  not  worth  a  single  shilling. 

"  The  regiment  in  which  Paul  was  stationed  hap- 
pened to  be  ordered  into  quarters  within  a  small 
distance  from  the  estate  which  Lennard  had  pur- 
chased, and  where  he  was  settled.  This  latter,  who 
was  now  become  a  country  gentleman,  and  a  justice 
of  peace,  came  to  attend  the  quarter  sessions  in  the 
town  where  his  old  friend  was  quartered,  soon  after 
his  arrival.  Some  affair  in  which  a  soldier  was 
concerned  occasioned  Paul  to  attend  the  justices. 
JManhood,  and  time,  and  the  change  of  climate, 
had  so  much  altered  Lennard,  that  Paul  did  not 
immediately  recollect  the  features  of  his  old  ac- 
quaintance :  but  it  was  otherwise  with  Lennard.  He 
knew  Paul  the  moment  he  saw  him  ;  nor  could  he 
contain  himself  from  quitting  the  bench,  and  run- 
ning hastily  to  embrace  him.  Paul  stood  at  first  a 
little  surprized  ;  but  had  soon  sufficient  information 
from  his  friend,  whom  he  no  sooner  remembered 
than  he  returned  his  embrace  with  a  passion  which 
made  many  of  the  spectators  laugh,  and  gave  to 
some  few  a  much  higher  and  more  agreeable 
sensation. 

"Not  to  detain  the  reader  with  minute  circum- 
stances, Lennard  insisted  on  his  friend's  returning 
with  him  to  his  house  that  evening ;  which  request 
was  complied  with,  and  leave  for  a  month's  absence 
for  Paul  obtained  of  the  commanding  officer. 

"  If  it  was  possible  for  any  circumstance  to  give 
any  addition  to  the  happiness  which  Paul  proposed 
in  this  visit,  he  received  that  additional  pleasure  by 
vol,.  XI.  —  15  [  225  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

finding,  on  his  arrival  at  his  friend's  house,  that  his 
lady  was  an  old  acquaintance  which  he  had  formerly 
contracted  at  his  quarters,  and  who  had  always 
appeared  to  be  of  a  most  agreeable  temper ;  a  char- 
acter she  had  ever  maintained  among  her  intimates, 
being  of  that  number,  every  individual  of  which  is 
called  quite  the  best  sort  of  woman  in  the  world. 

"  But,  good  as  this  lady  was,  she  was  still  a 
woman  ;  that  is  to  say,  an  angel,  and  not  an  angel." 
—  "  You  must  mistake,  child,"  cries  the  parson,  "  for 
you  read  nonsense."  —  "  It  is  so  in  the  book,"  an- 
swered the  son.  Mr.  Adams  was  then  silenced  by 
authority,  and  Dick  proceeded  —  "  For  though  her 
person  was  of  that  kind  to  which  men  attribute  the 
name  of  angel,  yet  in  her  mind  she  was  perfectly 
woman.  Of  which  a  great  degree  of  obstinacy  gave 
the  most  remarkable  and  perhaps  most  pernicious 
instance. 

"  A  day  or  two  passed  after  Paul's  arrival  before 
any  instances  of  this  appeared ;  but  it  was  impossible 
to  conceal  it  long.  Both  she  and  her  husband  soon 
lost  all  apprehension  from  their  friend's  presence, 
and  fell  to  their  disputes  with  as  much  vigour  as  ever. 
These  were  still  pursued  with  the  utmost  ardour  and 
eagerness,  however  trifling  the  causes  were  whence 
they  first  arose.  Nay,  however  incredible  it  may 
seem,  the  little  consequence  of  the  matter  in  debate 
was  frequently  given  as  a  reason  for  the  fierceness  of 
the  contention,  as  thus  :  '  If  you  loved  me,  sure  you 
would  never  dispute  with  me  such  a  trifle  as  this.' 
The  answer  to  which  is  very  obvious  ;  for  the  argu- 
ment would  hold   equally  on   both  sides,  and   was 

[226] 


OBSTINACY 

constantly  retorted  with  some  addition,  as  —  'I  am 
sure  I  have  much  more  reason  to  say  so,  who  am  in 
the  right.'  During  all  these  disputes,  Paul  always 
kept  strict  silence,  and  preserved  an  even  countenance, 
without  showing  the  least  visible  inclination  to  either 
party.  One  day,  however,  when  madam  had  left  the 
room  in  a  violent  fury,  Lennard  could  not  refrain 
from  referring  his  cause  to  his  friend.  Was  ever 
anything  so  unreasonable,  says  he,  as  this  woman  ? 
What  shall  I  do  with  her  ?  I  doat  on  her  to  dis- 
traction ;  nor  have  I  any  cause  to  complain  of,  more 
than  this  obstinacy  in  her  temper ;  whatever  she 
asserts,  she  will  maintain  against  all  the  reason  and 
conviction  in  the  world.  Pray  give  me  your  advice. 
—  First,  says  Paul,  I  will  give  my  opinion,  which  is, 
flatly,  that  you  are  in  the  ^vrong  ;  for,  supposing  she 
is  in  the  wrong,  was  the  subject  of  your  contention 
any  ways  material  ?  What  signified  it  whether  you 
was  married  in  a  red  or  a  yellow  waistcoat  ?  for  that 
was  your  dispute.  Now,  suppose  she  was  mistaken  ; 
as  vou  love  her  you  say  so  tenderly,  and  I  believe 
she  deserves  it,  Avould  it  not  have  been  wiser  to  have 
yielded,  though  you  certainly  knew  yourself  in  the 
right,  than  to  give  either  her  or  yourself  any  uneasi- 
ness. For  my  own  part,  if  ever  I  marry,  I  am  resolved 
to  enter  into  an  agreement  with  my  wife,  that  in  all 
disputes  (especially  about  trifles)  that  party  who  is 
most  convinced  they  are  right  shall  always  surrender 
the  victory  ;  by  which  means  we  shall  both  be  forward 
to  give  up  the  cause.  I  own,  said  Lennard,  my  dear 
friend,  shaking  him  by  the  hand,  there  is  great  truth 
and  reason  in  what  you  say ;  and  I  will  for  the  future 

[  227  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

endeavour  to  follow  your  advice.  They  soon  after 
broke  up  the  conversation,  and  Lennard,  going  to 
his  wife,  asked  her  pardon,  and  told  her  his  friend 
had  convinced  him  he  had  been  in  the  wrong.  She 
immediately  began  a  vast  encomium  on  Paul,  in 
which  he  seconded  her,  and  both  agreed  he  was  the 
worthiest  and  wisest  man  upon  earth.  When  next 
they  met,  which  was  at  supper,  though  she  had 
promised  not  to  mention  what  her  husband  told  her, 
she  could  not  forbear  casting  the  kindest  and  most 
affectionate  looks  on  Paul,  and  asked  him,  with  the 
sweetest  voice,  whether  she  should  help  him  to  some 
potted  woodcock  ?  Potted  partridge,  my  dear,  you 
mean,  says  the  husband.  My  dear,  says  she,  I  ask 
your  friend  if  he  will  eat  any  potted  woodcock  ;  and 
I  am  sure  I  must  know,  who  potted  it.  I  think  I 
should  know  too,  who  shot  them,  replied  the  husband, 
and  I  am  convinced  that  I  have  not  seen  a  woodcock 
this  year ;  liowever,  though  I  know  I  am  in  the  right, 
I  submit,  and  the  potted  partridge  is  potted  wood- 
cock if  you  desire  to  have  it  so.  It  is  equal  to  me, 
says  she,  whether  it  is  one  or  the  other ;  but  you  would 
persuade  one  out  of  one*'s  senses ;  to  be  sure,  you  are 
always  in  the  right  in  your  own  opinion ;  but  your 
friend,  I  believe,  knows  which  he  is  eating.  Paul  an- 
swered nothing,  and  the  dispute  continued,  as  usual, 
the  greatest  part  of  the  evening.  The  next  morning 
the  lady,  accidentally  meeting  Paul,  and  being  con- 
vinced he  was  her  friend,  and  of  her  side,  accosted  him 
thus  :  —  I  am  certain,  sir,  you  have  long  since  won- 
dered at  the  unreasonableness  of  my  husband.  He  is 
indeed,  in  other  respects,  a  good  sort  of  man,  but 

[  228] 


ADVICE    OF    A    FRIEND 

so  positive,  that  no  woman  but  one  of  my  comply- 
ing temper  could  possibly  live  with  him.  Why,  last 
night,  now,  was  ever  any  creature  so  unreasonable  ? 
I  am  certain  you  must  condemn  him.  Pray,  answer 
me,  was  he  not  in  the  wrong  ?  Paul,  after  a  short 
silence,  spoke  as  follows  :  I  am  sorry,  madam,  that, 
as  good  manners  obliges  me  to  answer  against  my 
will,  so  an  adherence  to  truth  forces  me  to  declare 
mvself  of  a  different  opinion.  To  be  plain  and 
honest,  you  was  entirely  in  the  wrong  ;  the  cause  I 
own  not  worth  disputing,  but  the  bird  was  un- 
doubtedly u  partridge.  O  sir!  replyed  the  lady,  I 
cannot  possibly  help  your  taste.  Madam,  returned 
Paul,  that  is  very  little  material ;  for,  had  it  been 
otherwise,  a  husband  might  have  expected  sub- 
mission. — Indeed  !  sir,  says  she,  I  assure  you  !  — 
Yes,  madam,  cryed  he,  he  might,  from  a  person  of 
your  excellent  understanding;  and  pardon  me  for 
saying,  such  a  condescension  would  have  shown  a 
superiority  of  sense  even  to  your  husband  himself.  — 
But,  dear  sir,  said  she,  why  should  I  submit  when  I 
am  in  the  right?  —  For  that  very  reason,  answered 
he  ;  it  would  be  the  gi-eatest  instance  of  affection 
imaginable ;  for  can  anything  be  a  greater  object 
of  our  compassion  than  a  person  we  love  in  the 
wrong  ?  Ay,  but  I  should  endeavour,  said  she,  to 
set  him  right.  Pardon  me,  madam,  answered  Paul : 
I  will  apply  to  your  own  experience  if  you  ever  found 
your  arguments  had  that  effect.  The  more  our 
judgments  err,  the  less  we  are  willing  to  own  it : 
for  my  own  part,  I  have  always  observed  the  persons 
who  maintain  the  worst  side  in  any  contest  are  the 

[  229  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

warmest.  Why,  says  she,  I  must  confess  there  is 
truth  in  what  you  say,  and  I  will  endeavour  to 
practise  it.  The  husband  then  coming  in,  Paul 
departed.  And  Lennard,  approaching  his  wife  with 
an  air  of  good  humour,  told  her  he  was  sorry  for 
their  foolish  dispute  the  last  night  ;  but  he  was  now 
convinced  of  his  error.  She  answered,  smiling,  she 
believed  she  owed  his  condescension  to  his  compla- 
cence ;  that  she  was  ashamed  to  think  a  word  had 
passed  on  so  silly  an  occasion,  especially  as  she  was 
satisfyed  she  had  been  mistaken.  A  little  contention 
followed,  but  with  the  utmost  good- will  to  each  other, 
and  was  concluded  by  her  asserting  that  Paul  had 
thoroughly  convinced  her  she  had  been  in  the  wrong. 
Upon  which  they  both  united  in  the  praises  of  their 
common  friend. 

"  Paul  now  passed  his  time  with  great  satisfaction, 
these  disputes  being  much  less  frequent,  as  well  as 
shorter  than  usual ;  but  the  devil,  or  some  unlucky 
accident  in  which  perhaps  the  devil  had  no  hand, 
shortly  put  an  end  to  his  happiness.  He  was  now 
eternally  the  private  referee  of  every  difference ;  in 
which,  after  having  perfectly,  as  he  thought,  estab- 
lished the  doctrine  of  submission,  he  never  scrupled 
to  assure  both  privately  that  they  were  in  the  right 
in  every  argument,  as  before  he  had  followed  the  con- 
trary method.  One  day  a  violent  litigation  happened 
in  his  absence,  and  both  parties  agreed  to  refer  it  to 
his  decision.  The  husband  professing  himself  sure 
the  decision  would  be  in  his  favour;  the  wife  an- 
swered, he  might  be  mistaken  ;  for  she  believed  his 
friend  was  convinced  how  seldom  she  was  to  blame ; 

[  230  ] 


LACK    OF    GENEROSITY 

and  that  if  he  knew  all  —  The  husband  replied,  My 
dear,  I  have  no  desire  of  any  retrospect ;  but  I  believe, 
if  you  knew  all  too,  you  would  not  imagine  my  friend 
so  entirely  on  your  side.  Nay,  says  she,  since  you 
provoke  me,  I  will  mention  one  instance.  You  may 
remember  our  dispute  about  sending  Jackey  to  school 
in  cold  weather,  which  point  I  gave  up  to  you  from 
mere  compassion,  knowing  myself  to  be  in  the  right; 
and  Paul  himself  told  me  afterwards  he  thought  me 
so.  My  dear,  replied  the  husband,  I  will  not  scruple 
your  veracity ;  but  I  assure  you  solemnly,  on  my 
applying  to  him,  he  gave  it  absolutely  on  my  side, 
and  said  he  would  have  acted  in  the  same  manner. 
They  then  proceeded  to  produce  numberless  other 
instances,  in  all  which  Paul  had,  on  vows  of  secresy, 
given  his  opinion  on  both  sides.  In  the  conclusion, 
both  believing  each  other,  they  fell  severely  on  the 
treachery  of  Paul,  and  agreed  that  he  had  been  the 
occasion  of  almost  every  dispute  which  had  fallen  out 
between  them.  They  then  became  extremely  loving, 
and  so  full  of  condescension  on  both  sides,  that  they 
vyed  with  each  other  in  censuring  their  own  conduct, 
and  jointly  vented  their  indignation  on  Paul,  whom 
the  wife,  fearing  a  bloody  consequence,  earnestly  en- 
treated her  husband  to  suffer  c|uietly  to  depart  the 
next  day,  which  was  the  time  fixed  for  his  return  to 
quarters,  and  then  drop  his  acquaintance. 

"  However  ungenerous  this  behaviour  in  Lennard 
may  be  esteemed,  his  wife  obtained  a  promise  from 
him  (though  with  difficulty)  to  follow  her  advice ; 
but  they  both  expressed  such  unusual  coldness  that 
day  to  Paul,  that  he,  who  was  quick  of  apprehension, 

[  5231  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

taking  Lennard  aside,  pressed  him  so  home,  that  he 
at  last  discovered  the  secret.  Paul  ackiiowledg-ed  the 
truth,  but  told  him  the  design  with  which  he  had  done 
it.  —  To  which  the  other  answered,  he  would  have 
acted  more  friendly  to  have  let  him  into  the  whole 
design  ;  for  that  he  might  have  assured  himself  of 
his  secresy.  Paul  replyed,  with  some  indignation, 
he  had  given  him  a  sufficient  proof  how  capable  he 
was  of  concealing  a  secret  from  his  wife.  Lennard 
retui'ned  with  some  warmth  —  he  had  more  reason  to 
upbraid  him,  for  that  he  had  caused  most  of  the 
quarrels  between  them  by  his  strange  conduct,  and 
might  (if  they  had  not  discovered  the  affair  to  each 
other)  have  been  the  occasion  of  their  separation. 
Paul  then  said  *"  —  But  something  now  happened 
which  put  a  stop  to  Dick's  reading,  and  of  which  we 
shall  treat  in  the  next  chapter. 


[232] 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

IN    WHICH    THE    HISTORY    IS    CONTINUED. 

JOSEPH  ANDREWS  had  borne  with  great  un- 
easiness the  impertinence  of  beau  Didapper  to 
Fanny,  who  had  been  talking  pretty  freely  to 
her,  and  offering  her  settlements ;  but  the 
respect  to  the  company  had  restrained  him  from 
interferins  whilst  the  beau  confined  himself  to  the 
use  of  his  tongue  only ;  but  the  said  beau,  watching 
an  opportunity  whilst  the  ladies'  eyes  were  disposed 
another  ^^ay,  oifered  a  rudeness  to  her  with  his 
hands  ;  whicli  Joseph  no  sooner  perceived  than  he 
presented  him  with  so  sound  a  box  on  the  ear,  that 
it  conveyed  him  several  paces  from  where  he  stood. 
The  ladies  immediately  screamed  out,  rose  from  their 
chairs ;  and  the  beau,  as  soon  as  he  recovered  himself, 
drew  his  hanger :  which  Adams  observing,  snatched 
up  the  lid  of  a  pot  in  his  left  hand,  and,  covering 
himself  with  it  as  with  a  shield,  without  any  weapon 
of  offence  in  his  other  hand,  stept  in  before  Joseph, 
and  exposed  himself  to  the  enraged  beau,  who 
threatened  such  perdition  and  destruction,  that  it 
frighted  the  women,  who  were  all  got  in  a  huddle 
together,  out  of  their  wits,  even  to  hear  his  denun- 
ciations of  vengeance.  Joseph  was  of  a  different 
complexion,  and  begged  Adams  to  let  his  rival  come 

[  233  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

on  ;  for  he  had  a  good  cudgel  in  his  hand,  and  did 
not  fear  him.  Fanny  now  fainted  into  Mrs.  Adanis\s 
arms,  and  the  whole  room  was  in  confusion,  when  INir. 
Booby,  passing  by  ^Vdams,  who  lay  snug  under  the 
pot-lid,  came  up  to  Didapper,  and  insisted  on  his 
sheathing  the  hanger,  promising  he  should  have  satis- 
faction ;  which  Joseph  declared  he  would  give  him, 
and  fight  him  at  any  weapon  whatever.  The  beau 
now  sheathed  his  hanger,  and  taking  out  a  pocket- 
glass,  and  vowing  vengeance  all  the  time,  re-adjusted 
his  hair  ;  the  pai'son  deposited  his  shield  ;  and  Joseph, 
rmming  to  Fanny,  soon  brought  her  back  to  life. 
Lady  Booby  chid  Joseph  for  his  insult  on  Didapper ; 
but  he  answered,  he  would  have  attacked  an  army 
in  the  same  cause.  "  What  cause .'' "  said  the 
lady.  "  Madam,"  answered  Joseph,  "  he  was  rude  to 
that  young  woman.'"  — "  What,"  says  the  lady,  "  I 
suppose  he  would  have  kissed  the  wench ;  and  is  a 
gentleman  to  be  struck  for  such  an  offer  ?  I  must 
tell  you,  Joseph,  these  airs  do  not  become  you."  — 
"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Booby,  "  I  saw  the  whole  affair, 
and  I  do  not  commend  my  brother  ;  for  I  cannot 
perceive  why  he  should  take  upon  him  to  be  this  girl's 
champion."  —  "I  can  commend  him,"  says  Adams: 
"  he  is  a  brave  lad  ;  and  it  becomes  any  man  to  be  the 
champion  of  the  innocent ;  and  he  must  be  the  basest 
coward  who  would  not  vindicate  a  w  oman  with  whom 
he  is  on  the  brink  of  marriage."  —  "  Sir,"  says  Mr. 
Booby,  "  my  brother  is  not  a  proper  match  for  such 
a  young  woman  as  this."  —  "  No,"  says  Lady  Booby ; 
"  nor  do  you,  Mr.  Adams,  act  in  your  proper 
(character   by    encouraging   any  such  doings ;  and  I 

[  234  ] ' 


FANNY'S    GRIEF 

# 

am  very  much  surprized  you  should  concern  yourself 
in  it.  I  think  your  wife  and  family  your  properer 
care."  —  "  Indeed,  madam,  your  ladyship  says  very 
true,"  answered  Mrs.  Adams  :  "  he  talks  a  pack  of 
nonsense,  that  the  whole  parish  are  his  children.  I 
am  sure  I  don"'t  understand  what  he  means  by  it ;  it 
would  make  some  women  suspect  he  had  gone  astrav» 
but  I  acquit  him  of  that ;  I  can  read  Scriptm-e  as 
well  as  he,  and  I  never  found  that  the  parson  was 
obliged  to  provide  for  other  folks'  children  ;  and 
besides,  he  is  but  a  poor  curate,  and  hath  little 
enough,  as  your  ladjship  knows,  for  me  and  mine." 
— "  You  say  very  well,  Mrs.  Adams,"  quoth  the 
Lady  Booby,  who  had  not  spoke  a  word  to  her  be- 
fore ;  "  you  seem  to  be  a  very  sensible  woman ;  and 
I  assure  you,  your  husband  is  acting  a  very  fool- 
ish part,  and  opposing  his  own  interest,  seeing  my 
nephew  is  violently  set  against  this  match :  and 
indeed  I  can't  blame  him ;  it  is  by  no  means  one 
suitable  to  our  family."  In  this  manner  the  lady 
proceeded  with  Mrs.  Adams,  whilst  the  beau  hopped 
about  the  room,  shaking  his  head,  partly  from  pain 
and  partly  from  anger ;  and  Pamela  was  chiding 
Fanny  for  her  assurance  in  aiming  at  such  a  match  as 
her  brother.  Poor  Fanny  answered  only  with  her 
tears,  which  had  long  since  begun  to  wet  her  hand- 
kerchief ;  which  Joseph  perceiving,  took  her  by  the 
arm,  and  wrapping  it  in  his  carried  her  off,  swearing 
he  would  o\\n  no  relation  to  any  one  who  was  an 
enemy  to  her  he  loved  more  than  all  the  world.  He 
went  out  with  Fannv  under  his  left  arm,  brandishino; 
a  cudgel  in  his  right,  and  neither  Mr.  Booby  nor  the 

[235] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

beau  thought  proper  to  oppose  him.  Lady  Booby 
and  her  company  made  a  very  short  stay  behind 
him  :  for  the  lady's  bell  now  summoned  them  to 
dress  ;  for  which  they  had  just  time  before  dinner. 

Adams  seemed  now  very  much  dejected,  which  his 
wife  perceiving,  began  to  apply  some  matrimonial 
balsam.  She  told  him  he  had  reason  to  be  concerned, 
for  that  he  had  probably  ruined  his  family  with  his 
tricks  almost ;  but  perhaps  he  was  grieved  for  the 
loss  of  his  two  children,  Joseph  and  Fanny.  His 
eldest  daughter  went  on  :  "  Indeed,  father,  it  is  very 
hard  to  bring  strangers  here  to  eat  your  children's 
bread  out  of  their  mouths.  You  have  kept  them 
ever  since  they  came  home ;  and,  for  anything  I  see 
to  the  contrary,  may  keep  them  a  month  longer ; 
are  you  obliged  to  give  her  meat,  thoY  she  was  never 
so  handsome  ?  But  I  don''t  see  she  is  so  much  hand- 
somer than  other  people.  If  people  were  to  be  kept 
for  their  beauty,  she  would  scarce  fare  better  than 
her  neighbours,  I  believe.  As  for  Mr.  Joseph,  I 
have  nothing  to  say  ;  he  is  a  young  man  of  honest 
principles,  and  will  pay  some  time  or  other  for  what 
he  hath  ;  but  for  the  girl  —  whv  doth  she  not  return 
to  her  place  she  ran  away  from  ?  I  would  not  give 
such  a  vagabond  slut  a  halfpenny  though  I  had  a 
million  of  money  ;  no,  though  she  was  starving."" 
"  Indeed  but  I  would,""  cries  little  Dick ;  "  and, 
father,  rather  than  poor  Fanny  shall  be  starved,  I 
will  give  her  all  this  bread  and  cheese"  —  (offering 
what  he  held  in  his  hand).  Adams  smiled  on  the 
bov,  and  told  him  he  rejoiced  to  see  he  was  a  Chris- 
tian ;  and  that  if  he  had  a  halfpenny  in  his  pocket, 

[  236  ] 


INVITATION    TO    DINNER 

he  would  have  given  it  him  ;  telling  him  it  was  his 
dutv  to  look  upon  all  his  neighbours  as  his  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  love  them  accordingly.  "  Yes,  papa," 
savs  he,  "  I  love  her  better  than  mv  sisters,  for  she  is 
handsomer  than  any  of  them."  "  Is  she  so,  sauce- 
box ? "  says  the  sister,  giving  him  a  box  on  the  ear ; 
which  the  father  would  probably  have  resented,  had 
not  Joseph,  Fanny,  and  the  pedlar  at  that  instant 
returned  together.  Adams  bid  his  wife  prepare  some 
food  for  their  dinner  ;  she  said,  "  Truly  she  could 
not,  she  had  something  else  to  do."  Adams  rebuked 
her  for  disputing  his  commands,  and  quoted  many 
texts  of  Scripture  to  prove  "That  the  husband  is 
the  head  of  the  wife,  and  she  is  to  submit  and 
obey."  The  wife  answered,  "  It  was  blasphemy  to 
talk  Scripture  out  of  church ;  that  such  things  were 
verv  proper  to  be  said  in  the  pulpit,  but  that  it  was 
profane  to  talk  them  in  common  discourse."  Joseph 
told  Mr.  Adams  "  He  was  not  come  with  any  desigii 
to  give  him  or  Mrs.  Adams  any  trouble ;  but  to 
desire  the  fixvour  of  all  their  company  to  the  George 
(an  ale-house  in  the  parish),  where  he  had  bespoke 
a  piece  of  bacon  and  greens  for  their  dinner."  Mrs. 
Adams,  who  was  a  very  good  sort  of  woman,  only 
rather  too  strict  in  ceconomies,  readily  accepted  this 
invitation,  as  did  the  parson  himself  by  her  example ; 
and  away  they  all  walked  together,  not  omitting 
little  Dick,  to  whom  Joseph  gave  a  shilling  when 
he  heard  of  his  intended  liberality  to  Fanny. 


^237] 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

WHERE  THE  GOOD-NATURED  READER  WILL  SEE  SOMETHING 
WHICH  WILL  GIVE  HIM  NO  GREAT  PLEASURE. 

THE  pedlar  had  been  very  inquisitive  from 
the  time  he  had  first  heard  that  the  great 
house  in  this  parish  belonged  to  the  Lady 
Booby,  and  had  learnt  that  she  was  the 
widow  of  Sir  Thomas,  and  that  Sir  Thomas  had 
bought  Fanny,  at  about  the  age  of  three  or  four 
years,  of  a  travelling  woman ;  and,  now  their  homely 
but  hearty  meal  was  ended,  he  told  Fanny  he  believed 
he  could  acquaint  her  with  her  parents.  The  whole 
company,  especially  she  herself,  started  at  this  offer 
of  the  pedlar  s.  He  then  proceeded  thus,  while  they 
all  lent  their  strictest  attention:  —  "Though  I  am 
now  contented  with  this  humble  way  of  getting  my 
livelihood,  I  was  formerly  a  gentleman  ;  for  so  all 
those  of  my  profession  are  called.  In  a  word,  I  was 
a  drummer  in  an  Irish  regiment  of  foot.  Whilst  I 
was  in  this  honourable  station  I  attended  an  officer 
of  our  regiment  into  England  a-i'ccruitino;.  In  our 
march  from  Bristol  to  Froome  (for  since  the  decay 
of  the  w^oollen  ti'ade  the  clothing  towns  have  fur- 
nished the  army  with  a  great  number  of  recruits)  we 

[  238] 


THE    PEDLAR'S    TALE 

overlook  on  the  road  a  woman,  who  seemed  to  be 
about  thirty  yeai's  old  or  thereabouts,  not  very  hand- 
some, but  well  enough  for  a  soldier.  As  we  came  up 
to  her,  she  mended  her  pace,  and  falling  into  discourse 
with  our  ladies  (for  every  man  of  the  party,  namely, 
a  Serjeant,  two  private  men,  and  a  drum,  were  pro- 
vided with  their  woman  except  myself),  she  continued 
to  travel  on  with  us.  I,  perceiving  she  must  fall  to 
my  lot,  advanced  presently  to  her,  made  love  to  her 
in  our  military  way,  and  quickly  succeeded  to  my 
Avishes.  We  struck  a  bargain  within  a  mile,  and 
lived  together  as  man  and  wife  to  her  dying  day." 
"I  suppose,"  says  Adams,  inteiTupting  him,  "you 
were  married  with  a  licence  ;  for  I  don't  see  how  you 
could  contrive  to  have  the  banns  published  while 
you  were  marching  from  place  to  place,""  "  No,  sir," 
said  the  pedlar,  "  we  took  a  licence  to  go  to  bed 
together  without  any  banns."  "  Ay  !  ay  !  "  said  the 
parson ;  "  ex  necessitate,  a  licence  may  be  allowable 
enough  ;  but  surely,  surely,  the  other  is  the  more 
regular  and  eligible  way."  The  pedlar  proceeded 
thus :  "  She  returned  with  me  to  our  regiment,  and 
removed  with  us  from  quarters  to  quartei's,  till  at 
last,  whilst  we  lay  at  Galloway,  she  fell  ill  of  a 
fever  and  died,  \\1ien  she  was  on  her  death-bed 
she  called  me  to  her,  and,  crying  bitterly,  declared 
she  could  not  depart  this  world  without  discovering 
a  secret  to  me,  which,  she  said,  was  the  only  sin 
which  sat  heavy  on  her  heart.  She  said  she  had 
formerly  travelled  in  a  company  of  gypsies,  who  had 
made  a  practice  of  stealing  away  children  ;  that  for 
her  own  part,  she  had  been  only  once  guilty  of  the 

[  239  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

crime;  which,  she  said,  she  lamented  more  than  all 
the  rest  of  her  sins,  since  probably  it  might  have 
occasioned  the  death  of  the  parents  ;  for,  added  she, 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  describe  the  beauty  of  the 
young  creature,  which  was  about  a  year  and  a  half 
old  when  I  kidnapped  it.  We  kept  her  (for  she  was 
a  girl)  above  two  years  in  our  company,  when  I  sold 
her  myself,  for  three  guineas,  to  Sir  Thomas  Booby, 
in  Somersetshire.  Now,  you  know  whether  there  are 
any  more  of  that  name  in  this  county."  "  Yes,"  says 
Adams,  "  there  are  several  Boobys  who  are  squires, 
but  I  believe  no  baronet  now  alive  ;  besides,  it 
answers  so  exactly  in  every  point,  there  is  no  room 
for  doubt ;  but  you  have  forgot  to  tell  us  the  parents 
from  whom  the  child  was  stolen."  "Their  name," 
answered  the  pedlar,  "  was  Andrews.  They  lived 
about  thirty  miles  from  the  squire ;  and  she  told 
me  that  I  might  be  sure  to  find  them  out  by  one  cir- 
cumstance ;  for  that  they  had  a  daughter  of  a  very 
strange  name,  Pamela,  or  Pamela ;  some  pronounced 
it  one  way,  and  some  the  other."  Fanny,  who  had 
changed  colour  at  the  first  mention  of  the  name,  now 
fainted  away  ;  Joseph  turned  pale,  and  poor  Dicky 
began  to  roar ;  the  parson  fell  on  his  knees,  and 
ejaculated  many  thanksgivings  that  this  discovery 
had  been  made  before  the  dreadful  sin  of  incest  was 
committed ;  and  the  pedlar  was  struck  with  amaze- 
ment, not  being  able  to  account  for  all  this  con- 
fusion ;  the  cause  of  which  was  presently  opened  by 
the  parson's  daughter,  who  was  the  only  unconcerned 
person  (for  the  mother  was  chafing  Fanny's  temples, 
and  taking   the  utmost  care  of  her)  :  and,   indeed, 

[  240] 


FANNY'S    PITIABLE    SITUATION 

Fanny  was  the  only  creature  whom  the  daughter 
would  not  have  pitied  in  her  situation ;  wherein, 
though  we  compassionate  her  ourselves,  we  shall 
leave  her  for  a  little  while,  and  pay  a  short  visit 
to  Lady  Booby. 


VOL.  II. 


16  [241] 


CHAPTER     THIRTEEN 

THE  HISTORY,  RETURNING  TO  THE  LADY  BOOBY,  GIVES 
SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  TERRIBLE  CONFLICT  IN  HER 
BREAST  BETWEEN  LOVE  AND  PRIDE  ;  WITH  WHAT 
HAPPENED    ON    THE    PRESENT    DISCOVERY. 

THE  lady  sat  down  with  her  company  to 
dinner,  but  eat  nothing.  As  soon  as 
her  cloth  was  removed  she  whispered 
Pamela  that  she  was  taken  a  little  ill, 
and  desired  her  to  entertain  her  husband  and  beau 
Didapper.  She  then  went  up  into  her  chamber,  sent 
for  Slipslop,  threw  herself  on  the  bed  in  the  agonies 
of  love,  rage,  and  despair;  nor  could  she  conceal 
these  boiling  passions  longer  without  bursting. 
Slipslop  now  approached  her  bed,  and  asked  how  her 
ladyship  did ;  but,  instead  of  revealing  her  disorder, 
as  she  intended,  she  entered  into  a  long  encomium 
on  the  beauty  and  virtues  of  Joseph  Andrews ;  end- 
ing, at  last,  with  expressing  her  concern  that  so  much 
tenderness  should  be  thrown  away  on  so  despicable 
an  object  as  Fanny.  Slipslop,  well  knowing  how  to 
humour  her  mistresses  frenzy,  proceeded  to  repeat, 
with  exaggeration,  if  possible,  all  her  mistress  had 
said,  and  concluded  with  a  wish  that  Joseph  had 
been  a  gentleman,  and  that  she  could  see  her  lady  in 
the  arms  of  such  a  husband.     The  lady  then  started 

[242] 


LOVE    AND    PRIDE 

from  the  bed,  and,  taking  a  turn  or  two  across  the 
room,  crjed  out,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  Sure  he  would 
make  any  woman  happy  ! "" —  "  Your  ladyship,"  says 
she,  "  would  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world 
with  him.  A  fig  for  custom  and  nonsense !  What 
""vails  what  people  say?  Shall  I  be  afraid  of  eating 
sweetmeats  because  people  may  say  I  have  a  sweet 
tooth  ?  If  I  had  a  mind  to  marry  a  man,  all  the 
world  should  not  hinder  me.  Your  ladyship  hath  no 
parents  to  tutelar  your  infections ;  besides,  lie  is  of 
your  ladyship"'s  family  now,  and  as  good  a  gentleman 
as  any  in  the  country ;  and  why  should  not  a  woman 
follow  her  mind  as  well  as  man.'*  Why  should 
not  your  ladyship  marry  the  brother  as  well  as  your 
nephew  the  sister  ?  I  am  sure,  if  it  was  a  fragrant 
crime,  I  would  not  persuade  your  ladyship  to  it."  — 
"  But,  dear  Slipslop,"  answered  the  lady,  "  if  I  could 
prevail  on  myself  to  commit  such  a  weakness,  there 
is  that  cursed  Fanny  in  the  way,  whom  the  idiot  — 
O  how  I  hate  and  despise  him  !  "  —  "  She  !  a  little 
ugly  mynx,"  cries  Slipslop ;  "  leave  her  to  me.  I 
suppose  your  ladyship  hath  heard  of  Joseph's  fitting 
with  one  of  Mr.  Didapper"'s  servants  about  her ;  and 
his  master  hath  ordered  them  to  carry  her  away 
by  force  this  evening.  I'll  take  care  they  shall  not 
want  assistance.  I  was  talking  with  this  gentleman, 
who  was  below,  just  when  your  ladyship  sent  for 
me."  — "  Go  back,"  says  the  Lady  Booby,  "  this 
instant,  for  I  expect  Mr.  Didapper  will  soon  be 
going.  Do  all  you  can ;  for  I  am  resolved  this 
wench  shall  not  be  in  our  family  :  I  will  endeavour 
to  return  to  the  company ;  but  let  me  know  as  soon 

[  243  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

as  she  is  carried  off."  Slipslop  went  away  ;  and  her 
mistress  began  to  arraign  her  own  conduct  in  the 
following  manner:  — 

"  What  am  I  doing  ?  How  do  I  suffer  this  passion 
to  creep  imperceptibly  upon  me  ?  How  many  days 
are  past  since  I  could  have  submitted  to  ask  myself 
the  question  ?  —  MaiTy  a  footman  !  Distraction  ! 
Can  I  afterwards  bear  the  eyes  of  my  acquaintance  ? 
But  I  can  retire  from  them ;  retire  with  one  in 
whom  I  propose  more  happiness  than  the  world  with- 
out him  can  give  me  !  Retire  —  to  feed  continually 
on  beauties  which  my  inflamed  imagination  sickens 
with  eagerly  gazing  on ;  to  satisfy  every  appetite, 
every  desire,  with  their  utmost  wish.  Ha !  and  do  I 
doat  thus  on  a  footman  ?  I  despise,  I  detest  my 
passion.  —  Yet  why.''  Is  he  not  generous,  gentle, 
kind  ? —  Kind  !  to  whom  ?  to  the  meanest  wretch,  a 
creature  below  my  consideration.  Doth  he  not  —  yes, 
he  doth  prefer  her.  Curse  his  beauties,  and  the  little 
low  heart  that  possesses  them ;  which  can  basely 
descend  to  this  despicable  wench,  and  be  ungratefully 
deaf  to  all  the  honours  I  do  him.  And  can  I  then  love 
this  monster.''  No,  I  will  tear  his  image  from  my  bosom, 
tread  on  him,  spurn  him.  I  will  have  those  pitiful 
charms,  which  now  I  despise,  mangled  in  my  sight ; 
for  I  will  not  suffer  the  little  jade  I  hate  to  riot  in 
the  beauties  I  contemn.  No  ;  though  I  despise  him 
myself,  though  I  would  spurn  him  from  my  feet,  was 
he  to  languish  at  them,  no  other  should  taste  the 
happiness  I  scorn.  Why  do  I  say  happiness .?  To 
me  it  would  be  misery.  To  sacrifice  my  reputation, 
my  character,  my  rank  in  life,  to  the  indulgence  of 

[  24i  ] 


STRANGE    NEWS 

a  mean  and  a  vile  appetite !  How  I  detest  the 
thought !  How  much  more  exquisite  is  the  pleasure 
resulting  from  the  reflection  of  virtue  and  prudence 
than  the  faint  relish  of  what  flows  from  vice  and 
folly  !  Whither  did  I  suffer  this  improper,  this  mad 
passion  to  hurry  me,  only  by  neglecting  to  summon 
the  aids  of  reason  to  my  assistance  ?  Reason,  which 
hath  now  set  before  me  my  desires  in  their  proper 
colours,  and  immediately  helped  me  to  expel  them. 
Yes,  I  thank  Heaven  and  my  pride,  I  have  now  per- 
fectly conquered  this  unworthy  passion ;  and  if  there 
was  no  obstacle  in  its  way,  my  pride  would  disdain 
anv  pleasures  which  could  be  the  consequence  of  so 
base,  so  mean,  so  vulgar  —  ■"  Slipslop  returned  at 
this  instant  in  a  violent  hurry,  and  with  the  utmost 
eagerness  cryed  out,  "  O  madam  !  I  have  strange  news. 
Tom  the  footman  is  just  come  from  the  George;  where, 
it  seems,  Joseph  and  the  rest  of  them  are  a  jinketting  ; 
and  he  says  there  is  a  strange  man  who  hath  dis- 
covered that  Fanny  and  Joseph  are  brother  and 
sister.""  —  "How,  Slipslop  ?"  cries  the  lady,  in  a  sur- 
prize. —  "I  had  not  time,  madam,"  cries  Slipslop, 
"  to  enquire  about  particles,  but  Tom  says  it  is  most 
certainly  true." 

This  unexpected  account  entirely  obliterated  all 
those  admirable  reflections  which  the  supreme  power 
of  reason  had  so  wisely  made  just  before.  In  short, 
when  despair,  which  had  more  share  in  producing 
the  resolutions  of  hatred  we  have  seen  taken,  began 
to  retreat,  the  lady  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then, 
foi'getting  all  the  purport  of  her  soliloquy,  dismissed 
her  woman  again,  with  orders  to  bid  Tom  attend  her 

[  245  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

in  the  parlour,  whither  she  now  hastened  to  acquaint 
Pamela  with  the  news.  Pamela  said  she  could  not 
believe  it ;  for  she  had  never  heard  that  her  mother 
had  lost  any  child,  or  that  she  had  ever  had  any 
more  than  Joseph  and  herself.  The  lady  flew  into  a 
violent  rage  with  her,  and  talked  of  upstarts  and  dis- 
owning relations  who  had  so  lately  been  on  a  level 
with  her.  Pamela  made  no  answer ;  but  her  hus- 
band, taking  up  her  cause,  severely  reprimanded  his 
aunt  for  her  behaviour  to  his  wife :  he  told  her,  if  it 
had  been  earlier  in  the  evening  she  should  not  have 
staid  a  moment  longer  in  her  house ;  that  he  was 
convinced,  if  this  young  woman  could  be  proved  her 
sister,  she  would  readily  embrace  her  as  such,  and  he 
himself  would  do  the  same.  He  then  desired  the 
fellow  might  be  sent  for,  and  the  young  woman  with 
him,  which  Lady  Booby  immediately  ordered ;  and, 
thinking  proper  to  make  some  apology  to  Pamela 
for  what  she  had  said,  it  was  readily  accepted,  and 
all  thinn;s  reconciled. 

The  pedlar  now  attended,  as  did  Fanny  and  Joseph, 
who  w'ould  not  quit  her  ;  the  parson  likewise  was 
induced,  not  only  by  curiosity,  of  which  he  had  no 
small  portion,  but  his  duty,  as  he  apprehended  it,  to 
follow  them  ;  for  he  continued  all  the  way  to  exhort 
them,  who  were  now  breaking  their  hearts,  to  offer 
up  thanksgivings,  and  be  joyful  for  so  miraculous  an 
escape. 

When  they  arrived  at  Booby-Hall  they  were 
presently  called  into  the  parlour,  where  the  pedlar 
repeated  the  same  story  he  had  told  before,  and 
insisted    on    the    truth    of  every    circumstance ;    so 

[246] 


A    SOCIAL    COMPANY 

that  all  who  heard  him  were  extremely  well  satisfied 
of  the  truth,  except  Pamela,  who  imagined,  as  she 
had  never  heard  either  of  her  parents  mention  such 
an  accident,  that  it  must  be  certainly  false;  and 
except  the  Lady  Booby,  who  suspected  the  false- 
hood of  the  story  from  her  ardent  desire  that  it 
should  be  true ;  and  Joseph,  who  feared  its  truth, 
ffom  his  earnest  wishes  that  it  might  prove  false, 

]\Ir.  Booby  now  desired  them  all  to  suspend  their 
curiosity  and  absolute  belief  or  disbelief  till  the  next 
morning,  when  he  expected  old  Mr.  Andrews  and 
his  wife  to  fetch  himself  and  Pamela  home  in  his 
coach,  and  then  they  might  be  certain  of  certainly 
knowing  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  this  relation  ;  in 
which,  he  said,  as  there  were  many  strong  circum- 
stances to  induce  their  credit,  so  he  could  not  perceive 
any  interest  the  pedlar  could  have  in  inventing  it, 
or  in  endeavouring  to  impose  such  a  falsehood  on 
them. 

The  Ladv  Boobv,  who  was  very  little  used  to  such 
company,  entertained  them  all  —  viz.  her  nephew, 
his  wife,  her  brother  and  sister,  the  beau,  and  the 
parson,  with  great  good  humour  at  her  own  table. 
As  to  the  pedlar,  she  ordered  him  to  be  made  as 
welcome  as  possible  by  her  servants.  All  the  com- 
pany in  the  parlour,  except  the  disappointed  lovers, 
who  sat  sullen  and  silent,  were  full  of  mirth ;  for 
Mr.  Booby  had  prevailed  on  Joseph  to  ask  Mr. 
Didapper's  pardon,  with  which  he  was  perfectly 
satisfied.  Many  jokes  passed  between  the  beau  and 
the  parson,  chiefly  on  each  other''s  dress ;  these 
afforded   much   diversion  to  the  company.     Pamela 

[247] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

chid  her  brother  Joseph  for  the  concern  which  he 
exprest  at  discovering  a  new  sister.  She  said,  if  he 
loved  Fanny  as  he  ought,  with  a  pure  affection, 
he  had  no  reason  to  lament  being  related  to  her.  — 
Upon  which  Adams  began  to  discourse  on  Platonic 
love  ;  whence  he  made  a  quick  transition  to  the  joys 
in  the  next  world,  and  concluded  with  strongly 
asserting  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  pleasure  in 
this.  At  which  Pamela  and  her  husband  smiled  on 
one  another. 

This  happy  pair  proposing  to  retire  (for  no  other 
person  gave  the  least  symptom  of  desiring  rest),  they 
all  repaired  to  several  beds  provided  for  them  in  the 
same  house ;  nor  was  Adams  himself  suffered  to  go 
home,  it  being  a  stormy  night.  Fanny  indeed  often 
begged  she  might  go  home  with  the  parson  ;  but  her 
stay  was  so  strongly  insisted  on,  that  she  at  last,  by 
Joseph''s  advice,  consented. 


[  248  ] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

CONTAINING  SEVERAL  CURIOUS  NIGHT-ADVENTURES,  IN 
WHICH  MR.  ADAMS  FELL  INTO  MANY  HAIR-BREADTH 
'scapes,  PARTLY  OWING  TO  HIS  GOODNESS,  AND 
PARTLY    TO    HIS    INADVERTENCY. 

^  BOUT  an  hour  after  they  had  all  separated 
/^L  (it  being  now  past  three  in  the  morning), 
/  ^k  beau  Didapper,  whose  passion  for  Fanny 
j[  m  permitted  him  not  to  close  his  eyes,  but 
had  employed  his  imagination  in  contrivances  how 
to  satisfy  his  desires,  at  last  hit  on  a  method  by 
which  he  hoped  to  effect  it.  He  had  ordered  his 
servant  to  bring  him  word  where  Fanny  lay,  and 
had  received  his  information  ;  he  therefore  arose,  put 
on  his  breeches  and  nightgown,  and  stole  softly  along 
the  gallery  which  led  to  her  apartment ;  and,  being 
come  to  the  door,  as  he  imagined  it,  he  opened  it 
with  the  least  noise  possible  and  entered  the  chamber. 
A  savour  now  invaded  his  nostrils  which  he  did  not 
expect  in  the  room  of  so  sweet  a  young  creature,  and 
which  might  have  probably  had  no  good  effect  on  a 
cooler  lover.  However,  he  groped  out  the  bed  with 
difficulty,  for  there  was  not  a  glimpse  of  light,  and, 
opening  the  curtains,  he  whispered  in  Joseph's  voice 
(for  he  was  an  excellent  mimic),  "Fanny,  my  angel ! 
I  am  come  to  inform  thee  that  I  have  discovered  the 
falsehood  of  the  story  we  last  night  heard.     I  am  no 

[249] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

longer  thy  brother,  but  the  lover ;  nor  will  I  be 
delayed  the  enjoyment  of  thee  one  moment  longer. 
You  have  sufficient  assurances  of  my  constancy  not 
to  doubt  my  marrying  you,  and  it  would  be  want  ol 
love  to  deny  me  the  possession  of  thy  charms.""  —  So 
saying,  he  disencumbered  himself  from  the  little 
clothes  he  had  on,  and,  leaping  into  bed,  embraced 
his  angel,  as  he  conceived  her,  with  great  rapture. 
If  he  was  surprised  at  receiving  no  answer,  he  was  no 
less  pleased  to  find  his  hug  returned  with  equal 
ardour.  He  remained  not  long  in  this  sweet  con- 
fusion ;  for  both  he  and  his  paramour  presently 
discovered  their  error.  Indeed  it  was  no  other  than 
the  accomplished  Slipslop  whom  he  had  engaged; 
but,  though  she  immediately  knew  the  person  whom 
she  had  mistaken  for  Joseph,  he  was  at  a  loss  to 
guess  at  the  representative  of  Fanny.  He  had  so 
little  seen  or  taken  notice  of  this  gentlewoman,  that 
light  itself  would  have  afforded  him  no  assistance  in 
his  conjecture.  Beau  Didapper  no  sooner  had  per- 
ceived his  mistake  than  he  attempted  to  escape  from 
the  bed  with  much  greater  haste  than  he  had  made 
to  it ;  but  the  watchful  Slipslop  prevented  him.  For 
that  prudent  woman,  being  disappointed  of  those 
delicious  offerings  which  her  fancy  had  promised  her 
pleasure,  resolved  to  make  an  immediate  sacrifice  to 
her  virtue.  Indeed  she  wanted  an  opportunity  to 
heal  some  wounds,  which  her  late  conduct  had,  she 
feared,  given  her  reputation ;  and,  as  she  had  a 
wonderful  presence  of  mind,  she  conceived  the  pei'son 
of  the  unfortunate  beau  to  be  luckily  thrown  in  her 
way  to  restore  her  lady's  opinion  of  her  impregnable 

[  250  J 


MR.    ADAMS'S    BLUNDER 

chastity.  At  that  instant,  therefore,  when  he  offered 
to  leap  from  the  bed,  she  caught  fast  hold  of  his 
shirt,  at  the  same  time  roaring  out,  "  Othou  villain  ! 
who  hast  attacked  my  chastity,  and,  I  believe,  ruined 
me  in  my  sleep ;  I  will  swear  a  rape  against  thee,  I 
will  prosecute  thee  with  the  utmost  vengeance." 
The  beau  attempted  to  get  loose,  but  she  held  him 
fast,  and  when  he  struggled  she  cried  out,  "  Murder  ! 
murder !  rape  !  robbery  !  ruin  !  ■"  At  which  A\ords, 
parson  Adams,  who  lay  in  the  next  chamber,  wake- 
ful, and  meditating  on  the  pedlar's  discoverv,  jumped 
out  of  bed,  and,  without  staying  to  put  a  rag  of 
clothes  on,  hastened  into  the  apartment  whence 
the  ci'ies  proceeded.  He  made  directly  to  the  bed  in 
the  dark,  where,  laying  hold  of  the  beau's  skin  (for 
Slipslop  had  torn  his  shirt  almost  off),  and  finding 
his  skin  extremely  soft,  and  hearing  him  in  a  low 
voice  begging  Slipslop  to  let  him  go,  he  no  longer 
doubted  but  this  was  the  young  woman  in  danger  of 
ravishing,  and  immediately  falling  on  the  bed,  and 
laying  hold  on  Slipslop's  chin,  where  he  found  a 
rough  beard,  his  belief  was  confirmed  ;  he  therefore 
rescued  the  beau,  who  presently  made  his  escape, 
and  then,  turning  towards  Slipslop,  received  such  a 
cuff  on  his  chops,  that,  his  wrath  kindling  instantly, 
he  offered  to  return  the  favour  so  stoutly,  that  had 
poor  Slipslop  received  the  fist,  which  in  the  dark  passed 
by  her  and  fell  on  the  pillow,she  would  most  probably 
have  given  up  the  ghost.  Adams,  missing  his  blow, 
fell  directly  on  Slipslop,  who  cuffed  and  scratched  as 
well  as  she  could;  nor  was  he  behindhand  with  her  in 
his  endeavours,  but  happily  the  darkness  of  the  night 

[251  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

befriended  her.  She  then  cried  she  was  a  woman  ;  but 
Adams  answered,  she  was  rather  the  devil,  and  if  she 
was  he  would  grapple  with  him  ;  and,  being  again 
irritated  by  another  stroke  on  his  chops,  he  gave  her 
such  a  remembrance  in  the  guts,  that  she  began  to 
roar  loud  enough  to  be  heard  all  over  the  house. 
Adams  then,  seizing  her  by  the  hair  (for  her  double- 
clout  had  fallen  off  in  the  scuffle),  pinned  her  head 
down  to  the  bolster,  and  then  both  called  for  lights 
together.  The  Lady  Booby,  who  was  as  wakeful  as 
any  of  her  guests,  had  been  alarmed  from  the  begin- 
ning ;  and,  being  a  woman  of  a  bold  spirit,  she  slipt 
on  a  nightgown,  petticoat,  and  slippers,  and  taking  a 
candle,  which  always  burnt  in  her  chamber,  in  her 
hand,  she  walked  undauntedly  to  Slipslop's  room ; 
where  she  entered  just  at  the  instant  as  Adams  had 
discovered,  by  the  two  mountains  which  Slipslop 
carried  before  her,  that  he  was  concerned  with  a 
female.  He  then  concluded  her  to  be  a  witch,  and 
said  he  fancied  those  breasts  gave  suck  to  a  legion  of 
devils.  Slipslop,  seeing  Lady  Booby  enter  the  room, 
cried  help !  or  I  am  ravished,  with  a  most  audible 
voice :  and  Adams,  perceiving  the  light,  turned 
hastily,  and  saw  the  lady  (as  she  did  him)  just  as  she 
came  to  the  feet  of  the  bed ;  nor  did  her  modesty, 
when  she  found  the  naked  condition  of  Adams,  suffer 
her  to  approach  farther.  She  then  began  to  revile 
the  parson  as  the  wickedest  of  all  men,  and  partic- 
ularly railed  at  his  impudence  in  chusing  her  house 
for  the  scene  of  his  debaucheries,  and  her  own  woman 
for  the  object  of  his  bestiality.  Poor  Adams  had 
before  discovered  the  countenance  of  his  bedfellow, 

[  252] 


LADY    BOOBY    APPEARS 

and,  now  first  recollecting  he  was  naked,  he  was  no 
less  confounded  than  Lady  Booby  herself,  and  im- 
mediately whipt  under  the  bedclothes,  whence  the 
chaste  Slipslop  endeavoured  in  vain  to  shut  him 
out.  Then  putting  forth  his  head,  on  which,  by 
way  of  ornament,  he  wore  a  flannel  nightcap,  he 
protested  his  innocence,  and  asked  ten  thousand 
pardons  of  Mrs.  Slipslop  for  the  blows  he  had  struck 
her,  vowing  he  had  mistaken  her  for  a  witch.  Lady 
Booby,  then  casting  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  observed 
something  sparkle  with  great  lustre,  which,  when  she 
had  taken  it  up,  appeared  to  be  a  very  fine  pair  of 
diamond  buttons  for  the  sleeves.  A  little  farther 
she  saw  lie  the  sleeve  itself  of  a  shirt  with  laced 
ruffles.  "  Heyday  !  "  says  she,  "  what  is  the  meaning 
of  this  .?  "  "  O^  madam,"  says  Slipslop,  "  I  don't  know 
what  hath  happened,  I  have  been  so  terrified.  Here 
may  have  been  a  dozen  men  in  the  room."  "  To 
whom  belongs  this  laced  shirt  and  jewels  ?  "  says  the 
lady.  "Undoubtedly,"  cries  the  parson,  "to  the 
young  gentleman  whom  I  mistook  for  a  woman  on 
coming  into  the  room,  whence  proceeded  all  the 
subsequent  mistakes  ;  for  if  I  had  suspected  him  for 
a  man,  I  would  have  seized  him,  had  he  been  another 
Hercules,  though,  indeed,  he  seems  rather  to  resemble 
Hylas."  He  then  gave  an  account  of  the  reason  of 
his  rising  from  bed,  and  the  rest,  till  the  lady  came 
into  the  room  ;  at  which,  and  the  figures  of  Slipslop 
and  her  gallant,  whose  heads  only  were  visible  at  the 
opposite  corners  of  the  bed,  she  could  not  refrain 
from  laughter  ;  nor  did  Slipslop  persist  in  accusing 
the  parson  of  any  motions  towards  a  rape.     The  lady 

[  253  1 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

therefore  desired  him  to  return  to  his  bed  as  soon  as 
she  was  departed,  and  then  ordering  SHpslop  to  rise 
and  attend  her  in  her  own  room,  she  returned  herself 
thither.  When  she  was  gone,  Adams  renewed  his 
petitions  for  pardon  to  Mrs.  Shpslop,  who,  with  a 
most  Christian  temper,  not  only  forgave,  but  began 
to  move  with  much  courtesy  towards  him,  which  he 
taking  as  a  hint  to  begin,  immediately  quitted  the 
bed,  and  made  the  best  of  his  way  towards  his  own ; 
but  unluckily,  instead  of  turning  to  the  right,  he 
turned  to  the  left,  and  went  to  the  apartment  where 
Fanny  lay,  who  (as  the  reader  may  remember)  had 
not  slept  a  wink  the  preceding  night,  and  who  was 
so  hagged  out  with  what  had  happened  to  her  in 
the  day,  that,  notwithstanding  all  thoughts  of  her 
Joseph,  she  was  fallen  into  so  profound  a  sleep,  that 
all  the  noise  in  the  adjoining  room  had  not  been 
able  to  disturb  her.  Adams  groped  out  the  bed, 
and,  turning  the  clothes  down  softly,  a  custom  Mrs. 
Adams  had  long  accustomed  him  to,  crept  in,  and 
deposited  his  carcase  on  the  bed-post,  a  place  which 
that  good  woman  had  always  assigned  him. 

As  the  cat  or  lap-dog  of  some  lovely  nymph,  for 
whom  ten  thousand  lovers  languish,  lies  quietly  by 
the  side  of  the  charming  maid,  and,  ignorant  of  the 
scene  of  delight  on  which  they  repose,  meditates  the 
future  capture  of  a  mouse,  or  surprizal  of  a  plate 
of  bread  and  butter :  so  Adams  lay  by  the  side  of 
Fanny,  ignorant  of  the  paradise  to  which  he  was  so 
near ;  nor  could  the  emanation  of  sweets  which 
flowed  from  her  breath  overpower  the  fumes  of 
tobacco  which  played  in  the  parson's  nostrils.     And 

[  254  J 


A    SECOND    BLUNDER 

now  sleep  had  not  overtaken  the  good  man,  when 
Joseph,  who  had  secretly  appointed  Fanny  to  come 
to  her  at  the  break  of  day,  rapped  softly  at  the 
chamber-door,  which  when  he  had  repeated  twice, 
Adams  cryed,  "  Come  in,  whoever  you  are."  Joseph 
thought  he  had  mistaken  the  door,  though  she  had 
given  him  the  most  exact  directions ;  however,  know- 
ing his  friend's  voice,  he  opened  it,  and  saw  some 
female  vestments  lying  on  a  chair.  Fanny,  waking 
at  the  same  instant,  and  stretching  out  her  hand  on 
Adams's  beard,  she  cried  out,  —  "  O  heavens  !  where 
am  I  ? "  "  Bless  me !  whei-e  am  I  ?  "  said  the  parson. 
Then  Fanny  screamed,  Adams  leapt  out  of  bed, 
and  Joseph  stood,  as  the  tragedians  call  it,  like  the 
statue  of  Surprize.  "  How  came  she  into  my  room  ? "" 
cryed  Adams.  "  How  came  you  into  hers  ?  "  cryed 
Joseph,  in  an  astonishment.  "  I  know  nothing  of  the 
matter,""  answered  Adams,  "  but  that  she  is  a  vestal 
for  me.  As  I  am  a  Christian,  I  know  not  whether 
she  is  a  man  or  woman.  He  is  an  infidel  who  doth 
not  believe  in  witchcraft.  They  as  surely  exist  now 
as  in  the  davs  of  Saul.  My  clothes  are  bewitched 
away  too,  and  Fanny's  brought  into  their  place."" 
For  he  still  insisted  he  was  in  his  own  apartment ; 
but  Fanny  denied  it  vehemently,  and  said  his  attempt- 
ing to  persuade  Joseph  of  such  a  falsehood  convinced 
her  of  his  wicked  designs.  "  How  ! "'''  said  Joseph  in 
a  rage.  "  hath  he  offered  any  rudeness  to  you  .''  "*"*  She 
answered  —  She  could  not  accuse  him  of  any  more 
than  villanouslv  stealino;  to  bed  to  her,  which  she 
thought  rudeness  sufficient,  and  what  no  man  would 
do  without  a  wicked  intention. 

[255] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Joseph's  great  opinion  of  Adams  was  not  easily  to 
be  staggered,  and  when  he  heard  from  Fanny  that 
no  harm  had  happened  he  grew  a  httle  cooler ;  yet 
still  he  was  confounded,  and,  as  he  knew  the  house, 
and  that  the  women's  apartments  were  on  this  side 
Mrs.  Slipslop's  room,  and  the  men's  on  the  other, 
he  was  convinced  that  he  was  in  Fanny's  chamber. 
Assuring  Adams  therefore  of  this  truth,  he  begged 
him  to  give  some  account  how  he  came  there. 
Adams  then,  standing  in  his  shirt,  which  did  not 
offend  Fanny,  as  the  curtains  of  the  bed  were  drawn, 
related  all  that  had  happened  ;  and  when  he  had  ended 
Joseph  told  him,  —  It  was  plain  he  had  mistaken 
by  turning  to  the  right  instead  of  the  left.  "  Odso  ! " 
cries  Adams,  "  that 's  true :  as  sure  as  sixpence,  you 
have  hit  on  the  very  thing."  He  then  traversed  the 
room,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  begged  Fanny's  pardon, 
assuring  her  he  did  not  know  whether  she  was  man 
or  woman.  That  iiinocent  creature  firmly  believing 
all  he  said,  told  him  she  was  no  longer  angry,  and 
begged  Joseph  to  conduct  him  into  his  own  apart- 
ment, where  he  should  stay  himself  till  she  had  put 
her  clothes  on.  Joseph  and  Adams  accordingly 
departed,  and  the  latter  soon  was  convinced  of  the 
mistake  he  had  committed ;  however,  whilst  he  was 
dressing  himself,  he  often  asserted  he  believed  in  the 
power  of  witchcraft  notwithstanding,  and  did  not 
see  how  a  Christian  could  deny  it. 


[256] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

THE  ARRIVAL  OF  GAFFAR  AND  GAMMAR  ANDREWS,  WITH 
ANOTHER  PERSON  NOT  MUCH  EXPECTED;  AND  A 
PERFECT  SOLUTION  OF  THE  DIFFICULTIES  RAISED 
BY    THE    PEDLAR. 

^S  soon  as  Fanny  was  drest  Joseph  returned 
/^        to   her,  and    they    had    a   long  conver- 

/ — ^^  sation  together,  the  conclusion  of  which 
^  »■  was,  that,  if  they  found  themselves  to 
be  really  brother  and  sister,  they  vowed  a  perpet- 
ual celibacy,  and  to  live  together  all  their  days, 
and  indulge  a    Platonic  friendship    for  each    other. 

The  company  were  all  very  merry  at  breakfast, 
and  Joseph  and  Fanny  rather  more  chearful  than  the 
preceding  night.  The  Lady  Booby  produced  the  dia- 
mond button,  which  the  beau  most  readily  owned,  and 
alledged  that  he  was  very  subject  to  walk  in  his  sleep. 
Indeed,  he  was  far  from  being  ashamed  of  his  amour, 
and  rather  endeavoured  to  insinuate  that  more  than 
was  really  true  had  passed  between  him  and  the  fair 
Slipslop. 

Their  tea  was  scarce  over  when  news  came  of  the 
arrival  of  old  IVIr.  Andrews  and  his  wife.  They  were 
immediately  introduced,  and  kindly  received  by  the 
Lady  Booby,  whose  heart  went  now  pit-a-pat,  as  did 
those  of  Joseph  and  Fanny.  They  felt,  perhaps, 
little  less  anxiety  in  this  interval  than  CEdipus  him- 
self, whilst  his  fate  was  revealing. 

T0L.II.-17  [257] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Mr.  Booby  first  opened  the  cause  by  informing  the 
old  gentleman  that  he  had  a  child  in  the  company 
more  than  he  knew  of,  and,  taking  Fanny  by  the 
hand,  told  him,  this  was  that  daughter  of  his  who 
had  been  stolen  away  by  gypsies  in  her  infancy. 
Mr.  Andrews,  after  expressing  some  astonishment, 
assured  his  honour  that  he  had  never  lost  a  dauffh- 
ter  by  gypsies,  nor  ever  had  any  other  children  than 
Joseph  and  Pamela.  These  words  were  a  cordial  to 
the  two  lovers  ;  but  had  a  different  effect  on  Lady 
Booby.  She  ordered  the  pedlar  to  be  called,  who 
recounted  his  story  as  he  had  done  before.  —  At  the 
end  of  whicli,  old  Mrs.  Andrews,  running  to  Fanny, 
embraced  her,  crying  out,  "  She  is,  she  is  my  child  !  " 
The  company  were  all  amazed  at  this  disagreement 
between  the  man  and  his  wife ;  and  the  blood  had 
now  forsaken  the  cheeks  of  the  lovers,  when  the  old 
woman,  turning  to  her  husband,  who  was  more  sur- 
prized than  all  the  rest,  and  having  a  little  recovered 
her  own  spirits,  delivered  herself  as  follows :  "  You 
may  remember,  my  dear,  when  you  went  a  serjeant  to 
Gibraltar,  you  left  me  big  with  child  ;  you  stayed 
abroad,  you  know,  upwards  of  three  years.  In  your 
absence  I  was  brought  to  bed,  I  verily  believe,  of  this 
daughter,  whom  I  am  sure  I  have  reason  to  remember, 
for  I  suckled  her  at  this  very  breast  till  the  day  she 
was  stolen  from  me.  One  afternoon,  when  the  child 
was  about  a  year,  or  a  year  and  a  half  old,  or  there- 
abouts, two  gypsy-women  came  to  the  door  and 
offered  to  tell  my  fortune.  One  of  them  had  a  child 
in  her  lap.  I  showed  them  my  hand,  and  desired  to 
know  if  you  was  ever  to  come  home  again,  which  I 

[258] 


GAMMAIl    ANDREWS'S  STORY 

remember  as  well  as  if  it  was  but  yesterday  :  they 
feithfully  promised  me  you  should.  —  I  left  the  girl 
in  the  cradle  and  went  to  draw  them  a  cup  of  liquor, 
the  best  I  had :  when  I  returned  with  the  pot  (I  am 
sure  I  was  not  absent  longer  than  whilst  I  am  telling 
it  to  you)  the  women  were  gone.     I  was  afraid  they 
had  stolen  something,  and  looked  and  looked,  but  to 
no  purpose,  and.  Heaven  knows,  I  had  very  little  for 
them  to  steal.     At  last,  hearing  the  child  cry  in  the 
cradle,  I  went  to  take  it  up — but,  O  the  living! 
how  was  I  surprized  to  find,  instead  of  my  own  girl 
that  I  had  put  into  the  cradle,  who  was  as  fine  a  fat 
thriving  child  as  you  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day,  a  poor 
sickly  bov,  that  did  not  seem  to  have  an  hour  to  live. 
I  ran  out,  pulling  my  hair  off  and  crying  like  any  mad 
after  the  women,  but   never  could   hear  a  word  of 
them  from  that  day  to  this.     When  I  came  back  the 
poor  infant  (which  is  our  Joseph  there,  as  stout  as  he 
now  stands)  lifted  up  its  eyes  upon  me  so  piteously, 
that,    to    be    sure,  notwithstanding    my    passion,    I 
could  not  find  in  my  heart  to  do  it  any  mischief.     A 
neighbour  of   mine,  happening   to  come    in  at   the 
same  time,  and  hearing  the  case,  advised  me  to  take 
care  of  this  poor  child,  and  God  would  perhaps  one 
day  restore  me  my  own.     Upon  which    I  took  the 
child  up,  and  suckled  it  to  be  sure,  all  the  world  as  if 
it  had  been  born  of  my  own  natural  body ;  and  as 
true  as  I  am  alive,  in  a  little  time  I  loved  the  bov  all 
to  nothing  as  if  it  had  been  my  own  girl.  —  AVell,  as 
I    was  saying,  times    growing    very  hard,  I    having 
two  children  and  nothing  but  my  own  work,  which 
was  little  enough,  God  knows,  to  maintain  them,  was 

[259  j 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

obliged  to  ask  relief  of  the  parish ;  but,  instead  of 
giving  it  me,  they  removed  me,  by  justices'  warrants, 
fifteen  miles,  to  the  place  where  I  now  live,  where  I 
had  not  been  long  settled  before  you  came  home. 
Joseph  (for  that  was  the  name  I  gave  him  myself  — 
the  Lord  knows  whether  he  was  baptized  or  no,  or  by 
what  name),  Joseph,  I  say,  seemed  to  me  about  five 
years  old  when  you  returned ;  for  I  believe  he  is  two 
or  three  years  older  than  our  daughter  here  (for  I  am 
thoroughly  convinced  she  is  the  same) ;  and  when 
you  saw  him  you  said  he  was  a  chopping  boy,  without 
ever  minding  his  age ;  and  so  I,  seeing  you  did  not 
suspect  anything  of  the  matter,  thought  I  might  e'en 
as  well  keep  it  to  myself,  for  fear  you  should  not  love 
him  as  well  as  I  did.  And  all  this  is  veritably  true, 
and  I  will  take  my  oath  of  it  before  any  justice  in  the 
kingdom." 

The  pedlar,  who  had  been  summoned  by  the  order 
of  Lady  Booby,  listened  with  the  utmost  attention  to 
Gamniar  Andrews's  story  ;  and,  when  she  had  finished, 
asked  her  if  the  supposititious  child  had  no  mark  on 
its  breast  ?  To  which  she  answered,  "  Yes,  he  had 
as  fine  a  strawberry  as  ever  grew  in  a  garden."  This 
Joseph  acknowledged,  and,  unbuttoning  his  coat,  at 
the  intercession  of  the  company,  showed  to  them. 
"  Well,"  says  GafFar  Andrews,  who  was  a  comical  sly 
old  fellow,  and  very  likely  desii-ed  to  have  no  more 
children  than  he  could  keep,  "you  have  proved,  I 
think,  very  plainly,  that  this  boy  doth  not  belong  to 
us;  but  how  are  you  certain  that  the  girl  is  ours?" 
The  parson  then  brought  the  pedlar  forward,  and 
desired  him  to  repeat  the  story  which  he  had  com- 

[260] 


THE    EXCHANGE 

municated  to  him  the  preceding  day  at  the  ale-house; 
which  he  comphed  with,  and  related  what  the  reader, 
as  well  as  Mr.  Adams,  hath  seen  before.  He  then 
confirmed,  from  his  wife's  report,  all  the  circumstances 
of  the  exchange,  and  of  the  strawberry  on  Joseph\s 
breast.  At  the  repetition  of  the  word  strawberry, 
Adams,  who  had  seen  it  without  any  emotion,  started 
and  cried,  "Bless  me!  something  comes  into  my 
head.'''  But  before  he  had  time  to  bring  anything 
out  a  servant  called  him  forth.  When  he  was  gone 
the  pedlar  assured  Joseph  that  his  parents  were 
persons  of  much  greater  circumstances  than  those  he 
had  hitherto  mistaken  for  such  ;  for  that  he  had  been 
stolen  fi'om  a  gentleman's  house  by  those  whom  they 
call  gypsies,  and  had  been  kept  by  them  during 
a  whole  year,  when,  looking  on  him  as  in  a  dying 
condition,  they  had  exchanged  him  for  the  other 
healthier  child,  in  the  manner  before  related.  He 
said.  As  to  the  name  of  his  father,  his  wife  had  either 
never  known  or  forgot  it ;  but  that  she  had  ac- 
quainted him  he  lived  about  forty  miles  from  the 
place  where  the  exchange  had  been  made,  and  which 
way,  promising  to  spare  no  pains  in  endeavouring 
with  him  to  discover  the  place. 

But  Fortune,  which  seldom  doth  good  or  ill,  or 
makes  men  happy  or  miserable,  by  halves,  resolved 
to  spare  him  this  labour.  The  reader  may  please  to 
recollect  that  Mr.  Wilson  had  intended  a  journey 
to  the  west,  in  which  he  was  to  pass  through  Mn 
Adams's  parish,  and  had  promised  to  call  on  him. 
He  was  nov/  arrived  at  the  Lady  Booby's  gates  for 
that  purpose,  being  directed  thither  from  the  par- 

[261] 


JOSEIMI    ANDREWS 

son''s  house,  and  had  sent  in  the  servant  whom  we 
have  above  seen  call  Mr.  Adams  forth.  This  had 
no  sooner  mentioned  the  discovery  of  a  stolen  child, 
and  had  uttered  the  word  strawberry,  than  Mr. 
Wilson,  with  wildncss  in  his  looks,  and  the  utmost 
eagerness  in  his  words,  begged  to  be  shewed  into  the 
room,  where  he  entered  without  the  least  regard  to 
any  of  the  company  but  Joseph,  and,  embracing  him 
with  a  complexion  all  pale  and  trembling,  desired  to 
see  the  mark  on  his  breast ;  the  parson  followed  him 
capering,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  crying  out,  H'lc  est 
rjuem  qucvris ;  inventus  est,  c^r.  Joseph  complied 
with  the  request  of  Mr.  Wilson,  who  no  sooner  saw 
the  mark  than,  abandoning  himself  to  the  most 
extravagant  rapture  of  passion,  he  embraced  Joseph 
with  inexpressible  ecstasy,  and  cried  out  in  tears  of 
joy,  "I  have  discovered  my  son,  I  have  him  again  in 
my  arms ! ""  Joseph  was  not  sufficiently  apprized 
yet  to  taste  the  same  delight  with  his  father  (for  so 
in  reality  he  was) ;  however,  he  returned  some 
warmth  to  his  embraces  :  but  he  no  sooner  perceived, 
from  his  father's  account,  the  agreement  of  every 
circumstance,  of  person,  time,  and  place,  than  he 
threw  himself  at  his  feet,  and,  embracing  his  knees, 
with  tears  begged  his  blessing,  which  was  given  with 
much  affection,  and  received  with  such  respect,  mixed 
with  such  tenderness  on  both  sides,  that  it  affected 
all  present ;  but  none  so  much  as  Lady  Booby,  who 
left  the  room  in  an  agony,  which  was  but  too  nmch 
perceived,  and  not  very  charitably  accounted  for  by 
some  of  the  company. 

[  262] 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

BEING    THE     LAST,     IN     WHICH    THIS    TRUE     HISTORY     IS 
BROUGHT   TO    A    HAPPY    CONCLUSION. 

FANNY  was  very  little  behind  her  Joseph 
in  the  duty  she  exprest  towards  her 
parents,  and  the  joy  she  evidenced  in  dis- 
covering them.  Ganimar  Andrews  icissed 
her,  and  said.  She  was  heartily  glad  to  see  her ;  but 
for  her  part,  she  could  never  love  any  one  better 
than  Joseph.  GafFar  Andrews  testified  no  remarkable 
emotion  :  he  blessed  and  kissed  her,  but  complained 
bitterly  that  he  wanted  his  pipe,  not  having  had  a 
\vhiff  that   morning. 

Mr.  Booby,  who  knew  nothing  of  his  aunt's  fond- 
ness, imputed  her  abrupt  departure  to  her  pride,  and 
disdain  of  the  family  into  which  he  was  man-ied ;  he 
was  therefore  desirous  to  be  gone  with  the  utmost 
celerity ;  and  now,  having  congi-atulated  Mr.  Wilson 
and  Joseph  on  the  discovery,  he  saluted  Fanny, 
called  her  sister,  and  introduced  her  as  such  to 
Pamela,  who  behaved  with  great  decency  on  the 
occasion. 

He  now  sent  a  message  to  his  aunt,  who  returned 
that  she  wished  him  a  good  journey,  but  was  too 
disordered  to  see  any  company  :  he  therefore  prepared 
to  set  out,  having  invited  Mr.  Wilson  to  his  house ; 
and  Pamela  and  Joseph  both  so  insisted  on  his  com- 

[263] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

plying,  that  he  at  last  consented,  having  first  obtained 
a  messenger  from  Mr.  Booby  to  acquaint  his  wife 
with  the  news ;  which,  as  he  knew  it  would  render 
her  completely  happy,  he  could  not  prevail  on  him- 
self to  delay  a  moment  in  acquainting  her  with. 

The  company  were  ranged  m  this  manner :  the 
two  old  people,  with  their  two  daughters,  rode  in 
the  coach  ;  the  squire,  Mr.  Wilson,  Joseph,  parson 
Adams,  and  the  pedlar,  proceeded  on  horseback. 

In  their  way,  Joseph  informed  his  father  of  his 
intended  match  with  Fanny  ;  to  which,  though  he 
expressed  some  reluctance  at  first,  on  the  eagerness 
of  his  son's  instances  he  consented  ;  saying,  if  she  was 
so  good  a  creature  as  she  appeared,  and  he  described 
her,  he  thought  the  disadvantages  of  birth  and  for- 
tune might  be  compensated.  He  however  insisted 
on  the  match  being  deferred  till  he  had  seen  his 
mother;  in  which,  Joseph  perceiving  him  positive, 
with  great  duty  obeyed  him,  to  the  great  delight  of 
parson  Adams,  who  by  these  means  saw  an  oppor- 
tunity of  fulfilling  the  Church  forms,  and  maiTying 
his  parishioners  without  a  licence. 

Mr.  Adams,  greatly  exulting  on  this  occasion  (for 
such  ceremonies  were  matters  of  no  small  moment 
with  him),  accidentally  gave  spurs  to  his  horse,  which 
the  generous  beast  disdaining  —  for  he  was  of  high 
mettle,  and  had  been  used  to  more  expert  riders 
than  the  gentleman  who  at  present  bestrode  him,  for 
whose  horsemanship  he  had  perhaps  some  contempt 
—  immediately  ran  away  full  speed,  and  played  so 
many  antic  tricks  that  he  tumbled  the  parson  from 
his  back  ;  which  Joseph  perceiving,  came  to  his  relief. 

[  264  ] 


THE    JUSTICE    OF  THE    PEACE 

This  accident  afforded  infinite  merriment  to  the 
servants,  and  no  less  frighted  poor  Fanny,  who  be- 
held him  as  he  passed  by  the  coach ;  but  the  mirth 
of  the  one  and  terror  of  the  other  were  soon  deter- 
mined, when  the  parson  declared  he  had  received  no 
damage. 

The  horse  having  freed  himself  from  his  unworthy 
rider,  as  he  probably  thought  him,  proceeded  to 
make  the  best  of  his  way  ;  but  was  stopped  by  a 
gentleman  and  his  servants,  who  were  travelling  the 
opposite  way,  and  were  now  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  coach.  They  soon  met ;  and  as  one  of  the  ser- 
vants delivered  Adams  his  horse,  his  master  hailed 
him,  and  Adams,  looking  up,  presently  recollected 
he  was  the  justice  of  peace  before  whom  he  and 
Fanny  had  made  their  appearance.  The  parson 
presently  saluted  him  very  kindly ;  and  the  justice 
informed  him  that  he  had  found  the  fellow  who 
attempted  to  swear  against  him  and  the  young 
woman  the  very  next  day,  and  had  committed  him 
to  Salisbury  gaol,  where  he  was  charged  with  many 
robberies. 

Many  compliments  having  passed  between  the 
parson  and  the  justice,  the  latter  proceeded  on  his 
journey  ;  and  the  former,  having  with  some  disdain 
refused  Joseph's  offer  of  changing  horses,  and  declared 
he  was  as  able  a  horseman  as  any  in  the  kingdom, 
remounted  his  beast ;  and  now  the  company  again 
proceeded,  and  happily  arrived  at  their  journey's  end, 
Mr.  Adams,  by  good  luck,  rather  than  by  good 
riding,  escaping  a  second  fall. 

The  company,  arriving  at  Mr.  Booby's  house,  were 

[  265  ] 


JOSEFH    ANDREWS 

all  received  by  him  in  the  most  courteous  and  enter- 
tained in  the  most  splendid  manner,  after  the  custom 
of  the  old  English  hospitality,  which  is  still  preserved 
in  some  very  few  families  in  the  remote  parts  of 
England.  They  all  passed  that  day  with  the  utmost 
satisfaction ;  it  being  perhaps  impossible  to  find  any 
set  of  people  more  solidly  and  sincerely  happy. 
Joseph  and  Fanny  found  means  to  be  alone  upwards 
of  two  hours,  which  were  the  shortest  but  the 
sweetest  imaginable. 

In  the  morning  Mr.  Wilson  proposed  to  his  son 
to  make  a  visit  with  him  to  his  mother ;  which,  not- 
withstanding his  dutiful  inclinations,  and  a  longing 
desire  he  had  to  see  her,  a  little  concerned  him,  as  he 
must  be  obliged  to  leav^e  his  Fanny  ;  but  the  good- 
ness of  Mr.  Booby  relieved  him  ;  for  he  proposed 
to  send  his  own  coach  and  six  for  Mrs.  Wilson,  whom 
Pamela  so  very  earnestly  invited,  that  Mr.  Wilson 
at  length  agreed  with  the  entreaties  of  Mr.  Booby 
and  Joseph,  and  suffered  the  coach  to  go  empty  for 
his  wife. 

On  Saturday  night  the  coach  returned  with  Mrs. 
Wilson,  who  added  one  more  to  this  happy  assembly. 
The  reader  may  imagine  much  better  and  quicker  too 
than  I  can  describe  the  many  embraces  and  tears  of 
joy  which  succeeded  her  arrival.  It  is  sufficient  to 
say  she  was  easily  prevailed  with  to  follow  her  hus- 
band''s  example  in  consenting  to  the  match. 

On  Sunday  Mr.  Adams  performed  the  service  at 
the  squire's  parish  church,  the  curate  of  which  very 
kindly  exchanged  duty,  and  rode  twenty  miles  to  the 
Lady   Booby's  parish   so  to   do ;  being  particularly 

[^66] 


THE    WEDDING    CEREMONY 

charged  not  to  omit  publishing  the  banns,  being  the 
third  and  last  time. 

At  length  the  happy  day  arrived  which  was  to  put 
Joseph  in  the  possession  of  all  his  wishes.  He  arose, 
and  drest  himself  in  a  neat  but  plain  suit  of  Mr. 
Booby's,  which  exactly  fitted  him  ;  for  he  refused  all 
finerv  ;  as  did  Fanny  likewise,  who  could  be  prevailed 
on  by  Pamela  to  attire  herself  in  nothing  richer  than 
a  white  dimity  nightgown.  Her  shift  indeed,  which 
Pamela  presented  her,  was  of  the  finest  kind,  and  had 
an  edgincr  of  lace  round  the  bosom.  She  likewise 
equipped  her  with  a  pair  of  fine  white  thread  stock- 
ings, which  were  all  she  would  accept ;  for  she  wore 
one  of  her  own  short  round-eared  caps,  and  over  it  a 
little  straw  hat,  lined  with  cherry-coloui^ed  silk,  and 
tied  with  a  cheiTy-coloured  ribbon.  In  this  dress  she 
came  forth  from  her  chamber,  blushing  and  breathing 
sweets ;  and  was  by  Joseph,  whose  eyes  sparkled  fire, 
led  to  church,  the  whole  family  attending,  where  Mr, 
Adams  performed  the  ceremony ;  at  which  nothing 
was  so  remarkable  as  the  extraordinary  and  unaffected 
modesty  of  Fanny,  unless  the  true  Christian  piety 
of  Adams,  who  publickly  rebuked  Mr.  Booby  and 
Pamela  for  laughing  in  so  sacred  a  place,  and  on  so 
solemn  an  occasion.  Our  parson  would  have  done 
no  less  to  the  highest  prince  on  earth  ;  for,  though 
he  paid  all  submission  and  deference  to  his  superiors 
in  other  matters,  where  the  least  spice  of  religion 
intervened  he  immediately  lost  all  respect  of  persons. 
It  was  his  maxim,  that  he  was  a  servant  of  the 
Highest,  and  could  not,  without  departing  from  his 
dutv,  give  up  the  least  article  of  his  honour  or  of  his 

[  267  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

cause  to  the  greatest  earthly  potentate.  Indeed,  he 
always  asserted  that  Mr.  Adams  at  church  with  his 
surplice  on,  and  Mr.  Adams  without  that  ornament 
in  any  other  place,  were  two  very  different  persons. 

When  the  church  rites  were  over  Joseph  led  his 
blooming  bride  back  to  Mr.  Booby's  (for  the  distance 
was  so  very  little  they  did  not  think  proper  to  use  a 
coach) ;  the  whole  company  attended  them  likewise 
on  foot ;  and  now  a  most  magnificent  entertainment 
was  provided,  at  which  parson  Adams  demonstrated 
an  appetite  surprizing  as  well  as  surpassing  every  one 
present.  Indeed  the  only  persons  who  betrayed  any 
deficiency  on  this  occasion  were  those  on  whose 
account  the  feast  was  provided.  They  pampered 
their  imaginations  with  the  much  more  exquisite 
repast  which  the  approach  of  night  promised  them  ; 
the  thoughts  of  which  filled  both  their  minds,  though 
with  different  sensations  ;  the  one  all  desire,  while 
the  other  had  her  wishes  tempered  with  fears. 

At  length,  after  a  day  passed  with  the  utmost 
merriment,  corrected  by  the  strictest  decency,  in 
which,  however,  parson  Adams,  being  well  filled  with 
ale  and  pudding,  had  given  a  loose  to  more  facetious- 
ness  than  was  usual  to  him,  the  happy,  the  blest 
moment  arrived  when  Fanny  retired  with  her  mother, 
her  mother-in-law,  and  her  sister. 

She  was  soon  undrest ;  for  she  had  no  jewels  to 
deposit  in  their  caskets,  nor  fine  laces  to  fold  with  the 
nicest  exactness.  Undressing  to  her  was  properly 
discovering,  not  putting  off,  ornaments ;  for,  as  all  her 
charms  were  the  gifts  of  nature,  she  could  divest  her- 
self of  none.     How,  reader,  shall  I  give  thee  an  ade- 

[268] 


A    HAPPY    CONCLUSION 

quate  idea  of  this  lovely  young  creature  ?  the  bloom  of 
roses  and  lilies  might  a  little  illustrate  her  complex- 
ion, or  their  smell  her  sweetness ;  but  to  comprehend 
her  entirely,  conceive  youth,  health,  bloom,  neatness, 
and  innocence,  in  her  bridal  bed  ;  conceive  all  these 
in  their  utmost  perfection,  and  you  may  place  the 
charming  Fanny"'s  picture  before  your  eyes. 

Joseph  no  sooner  heard  she  was  in  bed  than  he  fled 
with  the  utmost  eagerness  to  her.  A  minute  carried 
him  into  her  arms,  where  we  shall  leave  this  happy 
couple  to  enjoy  the  private  rewards  of  their  con- 
stancy ;  rewards  so  great  and  sweet,  that  I  apprehend 
Joseph  neither  envied  the  noblest  duke,  nor  Fanny 
the  finest  duchess,  that  night. 

The  third  day  Mr.  Wilson  and  his  wife,  with  their 
son  and  daughter,  returned  home  ;  where  they  now 
live  together  in  a  state  of  bliss  scarce  ever  equalled. 
Mr.  Booby  hath,  with  unprecedented  generosity,  given 
Fanny  a  fortune  of  two  thousand  pounds,  which 
Joseph  hath  laid  out  in  a  little  estate  in  the  same 
parish  with  his  father,  which  he  now  occupies  (his 
father  having  stocked  it  for  him) ;  and  Fanny  presides 
w  ith  most  excellent  management  in  his  dairy  ;  where, 
however,  she  is  not  at  present  very  able  to  bustle 
much,  being,  as  Mr.  Wilson  informs  me  in  his  last 
letter,  extremely  big  with  her  first  child. 

Mr.  Booby  hath  presented  Mr.  Adams  with  a  liv- 
ing of  one  hundred  and  thirty  pounds  a  year.  He 
at  first  refused  it,  resolving  not  to  quit  his  parishioners, 
with  whom  he  had  lived  so  long ;  but,  on  recollecting 
he  might  keep  a  curate  at  this  living,  he  hatli  been 
latelv  inducted  into  it. 

[  269  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

The  pedlar,  besides  several  handsome  presents,  both 
from  Mr.  Wilson  and  Mr.  Booby,  is,  by  the  latter's 
interest,  made  an  exciseman ;  a  trust  which  he  dis- 
charges with  such  justice,  that  he  is  greatly  beloved 
in  his  neighbourhood. 

As  for  the  Lady  Booby,  she  returned  to  London 
in  a  few  days,  where  a  young  captain  of  dragoons, 
together  with  eternal  parties  at  cards,  soon  obliter- 
ated the  memory  of  Joseph. 

Joseph  remains  blest  with  his  Fanny,  whom  he 
doats  on  with  the  utmost  tenderness,  which  is  all 
returned  on  her  side.  The  happiness  of  this  couple 
is  a  perpetual  fountain  of  pleasure  to  their  fond 
parents;  and,  what  is  particularly  remarkable,  he 
declares  he  will  imitate  them  in  their  retirement,  nor 
will  be  prevailed  on  by  any  booksellers,  or  their 
authors,  to  make  his  appearance  in  high  life. 


THE    END 


[270] 


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